I've had all kinds of experiences with writing. I've been doing it long enough that I no longer have posting anxiety, and I don't base my worth as person anymore on how many comments or hits I get on a story. I remember posting A Midnight Clear and crying for hours afterward, because I failed so miserably telling that story. It wasn't even a proud fail like Come The Night (i'm still proud of that story!). It was a total lack of understanding between myself and my readers and it really haunted me for a long time. Nowadays, I'm old and have fuck you embroidered on a fluffy pillow next to my soul.
Too many things happened at once--and I've whined about these things at length--and they all came together in a real crapfest. I was writing in dribs and drabs during the day, and then trying to make up for it by writing until 4:00 in the morning and you know what I found out? Old people really can;t do that kind of shit. I was wore out during the day, like, anytime I sat down, I'd nod off. Taking a dozen two minute naps does not a damn thing for you, trust me on this.
Today, I swore, as bobismywitless, that I was NOT GOING TO WRITE FOR DAYS. MAYBE WEEKS! except I started wondering what Preggo!Jared was doing and when Jensen would get off his ass and get with the program.
I hate my brain.
If you're still reading, here's the link to my BB: The Passenger. It features some brilliant art work by phoenix1966, and some throw-back style stuff--links to songs tied into the fic. THAT was fun. :D
