FA+
Shop
Apologies and Writing
5 years ago
For the two people that will read this:
Hello, everyone. I hope the beginning of 2020 has been kind to you all.
The end of 2019 was not kind to me. Many personal/familial issues blew up all at once around Christmas and left me in a bad headspace. Rather than make things worse by staying online and posting through my sadbrains, I took myself offline for a few weeks and worked on myself and my aforementioned issues. Things aren't 100% better, but they're stable enough that I can reappear in a somewhat limited capacity. I apologize for my absence, but it was necessary for my mental health.
But there is another, far more important, issue I wish to share with you all, and it's something that has been on my mind for quite some time.
You may have noticed as of late that my already glacial output has slowed even further, that I've gone through longer and longer lengths of time without posting anything. Part of this is, of course, work. Work is a constant we all face, but work always ends at the end of the day. What, then, have I been doing with my free time? Writing, of course. And... not writing. Along with the above issues, there was something else keeping me away from the keyboard. When I upload my stories to FA, I want them to be the best content I can deliver: coherent, free of glaring errors, and of course, sultry. But that need for quality content grew to an obsession, a neurotic need to comb through every paragraph again and again, obsessively pruning everything that was even slightly wrong. I'd pore over the same section of a story for upwards of a half hour, looking for anything even slightly wrong. And when I inevitably found something wrong, I'd berate myself for it, "Should've caught that sooner, Pip." Then it got worse. "Should've caught that sooner," became "This is garbage."; "Nobody will like this."; "What if they spot my mistakes? What if they call me out?" It gave me massive anxiety, to the point I would be overwhelmed and physically terrified of opening Word. With all I've learned, all the literature I've read, all the new ideas and techniques I've been wanted to put to the test, I've grown more fearful of committing to what I've learned out of fear of fucking it all up. And even if things were fine, my work suffered from sterilization; excessive pruning robbed it of its bite, that 'oomph', that rich enthusiasm that you can feel in killer word choice and in the fun character interactions and colorful exposition.
And when I had actually pushed through my fears, finished something and submitted it, the reception it received was rather muted. "Nobody liked it."; "It's garbage." My fear of failure and anxiety to achieve perfection have all taken a toll on my enjoyment of what's supposed to be a fun hobby.
But the other day, I had an epiphany.
I acknowledged that I have become terrified of writing over time and that my fear of failure and anxiety to achieve perfection have all taken a toll on my enjoyment. And I was the culprit. My fear and my delusions of wanting to be - great - as in popular, they created a pressure, a need to succeed, do or die. I thought I didn't give a rat's ass about popularity, but it was simply me masking my insecurities and my lack of validation behind a nebulous "Whatever; the views don't matter." Everyone wants and needs validation for their efforts, someone to say "Hey, I love the way she crushed that skyscraper with her tits." But asking for it, getting mad when it doesn't happen, isn't healthy. And demanding it just forces it, that's no good either.
And my fear of failure; "If you were more diligent you would've caught that." I should have been telling myself, "I write each story to the best of my ability. If I see a mistake now, that means I saw something I didn't realize. That means I have improved, and I will not make that same mistake again." And if I do, we're human. Or wolves and dragons pretending to be human from 9 to 5.
I've made up my mind to go back to how I used to operate. Do my own thing, and do the best I can, for myself. For myself, because writing is something I genuinely love and I will never give it up, and for my friends, because they enjoy my silly ideas and fun characters. I need to remember and understand that I can't please everyone, nor should I. Nor should I get caught up with such a fleeting thing like views and favorites, agonizing over the mote of dust I can't catch and hold in my hand. You each have your own tastes, your own likes and dislikes. If you like what I write, that's great; if not, that's okay too. I could make a million excuses for why I might have gotten a lukewarm reception: maybe they saw it and just didn't know what to say at the time; maybe it just wasn't their thing; maybe they glanced and saw something shinier; maybe maybe maybe. Who knows what they were thinking, and who cares. Who I can always please, though, is myself.
Thank you for making it this far with me. People, not the number, matter most. Knowing that you read what I write will always put a smile on my face.
I leave this as an affirmation and a reminder to myself and others who struggle that we must not fret over what cannot be controlled. We must love ourselves and our faults, because those silly quirks make for delightful stories.
The end of 2019 was not kind to me. Many personal/familial issues blew up all at once around Christmas and left me in a bad headspace. Rather than make things worse by staying online and posting through my sadbrains, I took myself offline for a few weeks and worked on myself and my aforementioned issues. Things aren't 100% better, but they're stable enough that I can reappear in a somewhat limited capacity. I apologize for my absence, but it was necessary for my mental health.
But there is another, far more important, issue I wish to share with you all, and it's something that has been on my mind for quite some time.
You may have noticed as of late that my already glacial output has slowed even further, that I've gone through longer and longer lengths of time without posting anything. Part of this is, of course, work. Work is a constant we all face, but work always ends at the end of the day. What, then, have I been doing with my free time? Writing, of course. And... not writing. Along with the above issues, there was something else keeping me away from the keyboard. When I upload my stories to FA, I want them to be the best content I can deliver: coherent, free of glaring errors, and of course, sultry. But that need for quality content grew to an obsession, a neurotic need to comb through every paragraph again and again, obsessively pruning everything that was even slightly wrong. I'd pore over the same section of a story for upwards of a half hour, looking for anything even slightly wrong. And when I inevitably found something wrong, I'd berate myself for it, "Should've caught that sooner, Pip." Then it got worse. "Should've caught that sooner," became "This is garbage."; "Nobody will like this."; "What if they spot my mistakes? What if they call me out?" It gave me massive anxiety, to the point I would be overwhelmed and physically terrified of opening Word. With all I've learned, all the literature I've read, all the new ideas and techniques I've been wanted to put to the test, I've grown more fearful of committing to what I've learned out of fear of fucking it all up. And even if things were fine, my work suffered from sterilization; excessive pruning robbed it of its bite, that 'oomph', that rich enthusiasm that you can feel in killer word choice and in the fun character interactions and colorful exposition.
And when I had actually pushed through my fears, finished something and submitted it, the reception it received was rather muted. "Nobody liked it."; "It's garbage." My fear of failure and anxiety to achieve perfection have all taken a toll on my enjoyment of what's supposed to be a fun hobby.
But the other day, I had an epiphany.
I acknowledged that I have become terrified of writing over time and that my fear of failure and anxiety to achieve perfection have all taken a toll on my enjoyment. And I was the culprit. My fear and my delusions of wanting to be - great - as in popular, they created a pressure, a need to succeed, do or die. I thought I didn't give a rat's ass about popularity, but it was simply me masking my insecurities and my lack of validation behind a nebulous "Whatever; the views don't matter." Everyone wants and needs validation for their efforts, someone to say "Hey, I love the way she crushed that skyscraper with her tits." But asking for it, getting mad when it doesn't happen, isn't healthy. And demanding it just forces it, that's no good either.
And my fear of failure; "If you were more diligent you would've caught that." I should have been telling myself, "I write each story to the best of my ability. If I see a mistake now, that means I saw something I didn't realize. That means I have improved, and I will not make that same mistake again." And if I do, we're human. Or wolves and dragons pretending to be human from 9 to 5.
I've made up my mind to go back to how I used to operate. Do my own thing, and do the best I can, for myself. For myself, because writing is something I genuinely love and I will never give it up, and for my friends, because they enjoy my silly ideas and fun characters. I need to remember and understand that I can't please everyone, nor should I. Nor should I get caught up with such a fleeting thing like views and favorites, agonizing over the mote of dust I can't catch and hold in my hand. You each have your own tastes, your own likes and dislikes. If you like what I write, that's great; if not, that's okay too. I could make a million excuses for why I might have gotten a lukewarm reception: maybe they saw it and just didn't know what to say at the time; maybe it just wasn't their thing; maybe they glanced and saw something shinier; maybe maybe maybe. Who knows what they were thinking, and who cares. Who I can always please, though, is myself.
Thank you for making it this far with me. People, not the number, matter most. Knowing that you read what I write will always put a smile on my face.
I leave this as an affirmation and a reminder to myself and others who struggle that we must not fret over what cannot be controlled. We must love ourselves and our faults, because those silly quirks make for delightful stories.
If that’s not the case then never hesitate about taking a step back and try something different. What’s the worst repercussions that can come from that?