Nearly 1500 words today. It’s taken me nearly an hour and a half to write this much. It’s been non stop stumbling. Write. Look at what I wrote. Stop. Think that it sucks. And then remember that yesterday a poet described my writing as “rainbows.”
Four rainbows to be specific.
I have got to stop bashing myself. I don’t want to become an egotistical idiot. I don’t want to stand on my pedestal and stare downwards at the masses surging around my feet. I’m most happy with my happy little corner of the world.
But somewhere, I have let that voice in the back of my head destroy my confidence related to writing. I have felt that to be proud of my talent required me to be ashamed of myself.
So, here’s my declaration of independence.
I, Grace Less Curran, have talent. I can write. And I love writing. And I’m proud of my writing. I love the fact that every now and then, I read what I wrote and forget that I wrote it. I have nothing to be ashamed over. I write because writing is my life. I write because without writing I have no life.
As I wrote on Absolute Write.com, I write because I have ink in my veins and words are my currency. And I am tired of hearing that doubting voice that lives in the back of my head and tells me that I will never, ever succeed.
I’m stomping on that voice. I don’t need it. I have been rejected. I will be rejected again. But, damn it. It’s time to stop listening and questioning myself.
This last weekend was finding a solace, a sanctuary. In a freezing cold library where I trembled under the layers of my brown ugly shirt, I found my voice. I took note after note as a literary agent and then a professional writer spoke. And I listened to them and not to the sound of self-deprecation that echoed through the heavy channels of my brain.
I am no James Joyce. I am no Cormac McCarthy. I will not try to scale their Mount Olympus.
But, I have my pen name. If I am to be professionally published, I will use the pseudonym of Lee Anne Curran. My father’s name is Lee. My mother’s name is Diane. I will bear the same last name as my beloved husband and children.
But, in the end, this is my writer’s name. I have a name. I have a name. I have a name. And I have a novel that I’ve restarted and I love my opening. I think I have something. I know it’s rough. I’m okay with that. I’m not in love with the words. Not yet. But I will be.
At this point, though, I haven’t done info-dumping. And I’m good with that.