I took a giant step in my writing career last month when I finally published Little Rebellion and the way this messed me up mentally is still on my mind. It got me to thinking about art, creativity and the ways in which I identify myself with the work I put out.
When I first started writing the book, I believed it would end up like all the others – unfinished, just a draft and forgotten. The more I kept going, the more the story evolved, I got attached to my own characters and I made a promise to myself that I would finish this one. Not for someone else, not for the approval of anyone, but for me. Just to let myself know I can do this.
It took a long time but I managed to do it and in the middle of the process I decided that, if I am already going to finish it, I might as well put it out into the world. The closer I got to the finish line, the more my mind began to overthink everything.
The book could’ve been done last year but I constantly postponed finishing it by rewriting the chapters and re-reading the book a million times. It wasn’t that I am a perfectionist or that I was obsessed with getting positive reviews. The problem was that little question that tormented me.
Who am I if this book fails?
I started writing at a very young age, I was around 5 when I learned how to read and write and writing is the only thing that stuck with me throughout my whole life. I remember how I would imagine my own little worlds where I could escape when things got really bad at home. It was my safe space and I had complete control over what my mind could build for me.
I used to sit on the floor, next to this table we had in the bedroom and just write and write and write in my notebooks until my arms got tired. I had some breaks in my life from writing, but I always came up with new stories or I would catch myself daydreaming and coming up with plot twists and new characters in my head.
The dream was born that I want to be an author but the world quickly shut that down because how am I supposed to make a living from it? I need to get serious and get a real career and be an adult. So I did that and I have a real career and a big-girl job and I pay my bills but my dream is still with me.
And then the first book came. I saw Little Rebellion as my own rebellion against the norm I bowed before but in doing so, I started questioning myself. It was only supposed to be a way of me proving to myself that I can finish a book, I even started a whole series from it but I delayed it out of fear. This book quickly became the measurement of every single piece of creative output I produced, my self worth and my worth as an aspiring author.
Because who am I if this book fails? Why should it be successful when there are so many talented authors out there with better work? Why do I believe my book has any worth or that it’s even good? Why do I think I am good at this?
The question list goes on and on and on and it never fucking stops. I started blaming myself for what my mind was doing to me because I believed that I set this standard for myself and that it was me who dreamed to big and projected all these expectations on to the book.
Then I started to think that it was my fault that I didn’t work hard enough, put in more hours to work on the novel, tried to come up with ways to market the book or at least get a publisher. I came to a point where I just wanted to close the blog, pull my books down from Amazon and let go of this part of me.
I went to a very dark place and that was when I put out Identity Crisis. I went through all of my poems that I wrote while I was going through my personal hell in my early twenties and I tried to learn from my past experiences but the only thing I came across was the fact that I am back there again. I am back to self-doubt, criticism and borderline internal hatred because I feel like I failed myself.
I was walking the thin line between standing firmly on the ground and falling into my old coping mechanisms. I did start to smoke again because I needed something to calm down my nerves and then I felt guilty because I was so weak that I turned back to my old vice.
I don’t know how this book went from “Do it to prove to yourself you can” to “Well, if this book fails, so do you”.
And the question remains. Who am I if this doesn’t work out? Will I ever be happy not fulfilling this dream I have? Will I ever find joy and happiness in anything if I have to let go of the thing that lived inside of me since I learned how to read and write? Why did I let it go this far?
I don’t really have answers. I don’t have a positive way of ending this post. I don’t know why I turned Little Rebellion into the end-all be-all of my own existence but I think that writing this post about it and recognizing that I am struggling with this is step one towards resolving it.
You can expect more posts like this from me soon, I am sorry if I am killing your mood. What I honestly want to know is, have any of you gone through something similar? It doesn’t have to be linked to writing or other arts, just in general did you ever have this feeling where everything in your life depends on the success of one thing?
Well, I hope you didn’t, but if you did I would love to hear your story down in the comments or if you’d like you can reach out to me on Instagram @luna.theblog.
Love you all,
Luna
Don’t forget that my first novel is available on Amazon: Little Rebellion
Also you can get my poetry books: Rehab and Identity crisis
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