I’ve been kicking around a bit. Pilgrimage is still out for a few agents (will detail progress further this weekend). I finished another short story last night for a contest. It’s an excerpt of a longer piece and I realize that taken on its face without the greater context, it has absolutely no speculative elements in it, short of being set in fictitious cultures. Will that hinder my chances? Hell if I know. I also outlined the better part of a four-book series, in which I like the central concepts but the whole execution seems to be lacking. Still, it is something to work on. I also have my secret steampunk short-story anthology that I … err, oops.
(Muse: Nice going, asshole. Not a secret anymore.)
So in short, I have a long list of projects in front of me. I have some stories out submitted, a novel that is probably my best work ever out with agents, and lots of projects to work on.
So why do I have no motivation?
Writer burnout is perhaps the most insidious thing I face as a writer, and I know I’ve posted about it before. Comes and goes. Still, sometimes fate throws you a bone.
I stumbled across this article called Recovering From Writing Burn Out. Some of the advice is pretty obvious and makes you go, “Duh!” but reading the organized thoughts helped me get in the right frame of mind. So I sat down and hashed out another story for my erstwhile-secret anthology.
The desire to give into writing despair is pretty tempting, especially when stories are not selling and feedback is lukewarm or worse. I am reminded of this Demotivator (linked here in case the img file pukes out):
But I guess sometimes you just have to take hold of your testicles (or ovaries, as applicable) and just gut through it. That’s where I am right now. It may not be my best work ever but it’s still moving forward.
‘Nuff self-pity. Back to work.