I know that I’m a decent writer.
My blog posts are generally off the cuff and usually laced with typos because I’m lazy and I look over them too easily in a draft, but I’m talking about some solid fiction writing.
I know that I kinda rock at dialogue.
I also know that I can take a completed piece and I can edit the hell out of it and make it something way better.
But I seem to have a huge problem in being confident of my own work. I did NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month for you uninformed folk) in 2012 (and 2010 and 2008 and I think 2007, too) and won for the 1st time in 2012. I was in tears when that word count came up as over 50,000 words.
I proudly ordered my winner t-shirt (because that’s a hell of an accomplishment, it deserved a t-shirt).
I hardly ever wear it. The reason? i get asked what it means and the next question is always, “What did you write about?” I DESPISE that question.
In 2012 I wrote a YA novel about a young girl whose mother is diagnosed with cancer and passes away. No shocker there, it’s my life story but slightly fictionalized and sensationalized. So it wasn’t a real stretch. But I still feel awkward saying that out loud in person and usually wind up muttering something like, “Erm, it’s a young adult novel, girl…. it’s dumb. But I wrote a book, hey, go me!”
This year, I’m writing middle-grade fiction, a book that I hope to be the start of a series. Imagine that you’ve lived your short life hoping to avoid falling into the family legacy. You’ve prayed and pleaded and made multiple bargains with the universe and by the age of 12, you feel sure that you’ve escaped your fate and get to lead a normal, uneventful life like you’ve always wanted. And then it happens. In one stroke of magic and with a fluttering of some errant tea leaves, you’re set on a path that ensures that your life will never be the same again.
(OMG it’s so dumb.)
(Stop it, it’s not dumb.)