I don’t know if I’m doing it right.
Yes. It’s simple, childish, and probably a sign of a cowardly soul. But there it is.
After writing and selling lots and lots of novels in the m/m romance genre, I had gained a certain amount of confidence that I knew what I was doing and that I was doing it right.
I’ve always been a creature who appreciated a pat on the head every once in a while. Just a little assurance of “Hey buddy, nice going. Keep it up.”
Selling a novel every three to four months is a remarkably fine pat on the head.
Insecurities have rushed in in the absence of such gestures.
Frank (my long-missing specter of imminent failure) has begun to rattle my front door again. And as a result, I’m closing the blinds, turning off the lights and hiding.
Apparently, I can’t write in the dark.
So, do I keep cowering behind the sofa, pecking out a sentence here and there? Or do I risk throwing back the curtains and letting light and Frank back inside?
The answer is unfortunately clear…
Time to clear off the end of the couch and whip up some crumpets.
Frank is back.
God help us all.