A Funk of Many Different Sorts

Lately I think the main thing I’ve been feeling is frustration with my craft. I switch over to drawing when it gets to be too much, but the same kind of pattern emerges. Basically, it’s a growing feeling of dread, of anger, both at myself and the work in front of me: WHY CAN’T I GET THIS RIGHT.

So to inspire myself, I seek out writing advice. People and words to tell me not to give up, that one day it will all be worth it. Lately, that just isn’t cutting it. Because no matter what I do, my story just isn’t clever. It doesn’t delight me. It’s like the ugly child I birthed that I cannot help but dote on, but feel pity for. It’s just wrong wrong wrong.

So I think to myself, why not write a blog post? Haha, maybe I’ll look back on this one day and laugh. And then I think, wow, how many posts can one person have about feeling like a terrible writer? Too many.

ANYWAY.

In happier news, I finished up the Grisha Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo today. So so good. As I read through it, it just felt like magic. Before I knew it, it was midnight and I was laying there, staring at my ceiling wondering how the author had done it. She lives in LA. Plausibly, I could stalk her and find her and SHAKE HER AND DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT KIND OF WITCHCRAFT SHE POSSESSES. But that’s crazy. I’ll just settle for obsessive surgery on her books. Because this is the kind of book I want to write. Something amazing, magical, funny, sad, and beautiful all at the same time. I just feel like all of my old favorites dull next to this sparkling masterpiece…AND I LOVED THOSE BOOKS TOO!

Most importantly though, these books are genuinely funny. Lately, I haven’t been able to get books that don’t have an inkling of humor in them. They’re good, well written, and possess great worlds, but I’m ashamed to admit I’ve put down more than a dozen books this summer because they weren’t funny. I think that’s really important to me and I’m glad to have discovered that because MY story is NOT funny.

There are glimmers of humor here and there, but it is definitely not funny for the majority of the ride. Near the end, I simply typed out word after word with a dull glaze over my eyes. That’s not fucking good mate. So I’m re-evaluating. Obviously I’m a little child who needs to snort at her own jokes so my book needs to change to accommodate me. Sorry Ilya. Sorry Pierre (who may not even exist in the 3rd draft).

Hmph. Writing.