Z.M. asked me about my novel, and internally I started freaking out. Didn't realize I'd feel that way, but I did. It's still like me baring my soul, even though it's just a story. It's just a story, it's just a story.
It's not just a story. It's potentially a validation of my existence. It's a tangible reminder of all my dreams, and a bulwark against the culmination of all my fears. It's a focus for my creativity. It's right now one of the few things, living and not, I actually give a damn about.
Damn it, I think it's a great story, I really do. I'm not going to pretend to be modest, it does have it's flaws, but I think it's an engaging world, interesting premise, and "realistic" characters (yes, they need to be more consistent in their motivations and mannerisms, but I'm getting there). Still, sometimes (most of the time) I'm not sure how to react, or if I can relate how I feel about it to other people. It makes me want to get another undergrad degree in English, just so I can be around people again that understand this, how it drives you crazy, how it consumes your waking moments, how you think it's crap, but keep doing it because else-wise, you'd die.
1 comment:
I don't think that's a crazy feeling to have at ALL. You've spent a lot of time, energy, and emotion on this story -- of course you're going to feel protective of it. And I couldn't even tell about the whole "freaking out internally" thing, if that makes you feel any better. :)
Post a Comment