![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sometimes, you wonder...
Apr. 20th, 2012 09:33 amSome people's paths to lauded bookhood appear, from the vantage of the internet and sometimes even from a real world vantage, to be relatively short, blessed, and easy in comparison to your own many many years long journey through unwelcoming and rocky territory. That is still ongoing.
Those same people often seem to have a great deal of family support and love bouying them up. Some people, indeed, just seem unfairly blessed.
But that's life and fair, as a woman I used to know was wont to say to her children, is a sunny day.
Of course, you don't know what those people have actually been through, you never know. And if they're people you think are swell, you're just happy for them, for the success of worthwhile things, for the love of art, of the book, of story, of people you're glad are in the world making awesome things.
But maybe, sometimes, you wonder, when the fuck is it my turn? Because for some of us, it seems every small success is beset by the orcs of difficulty. The path is thick with thorns and you never seem to reach those clearings where people, even ones you don't know, celebrate the thing you made, are gladdened and inspired by it, and say so, with confetti and chamagne.
You get tired. You feel discouraged.
You still love the writing itself, but sometimes you wonder, where did I go wrong? Is there any hope? Did I offend some great god of the book in a former life? Is someone hexing me? WTF world?
Of course, this is a useless place to be, and you don't want to be there. You want to be one of the happy, hard working, lucky ones. The in-crowd, the supported and wanted and loved. (What you have always longed to be, since the family of origin evaporated around you and you were, terminally, it seems, alone and unsupported, feeling unwanted.)
For long stretches of time you do well, you're positive, you know you, too, are blessed in many ways. You are thankful and sunny and productive.
Probably you will keep writing, even into your dotage. Because language and story are magic, and you love magic, love making magic, even if your magic remains forever small and quiet, receives no awards, and bubbles to itself in obscurity. Because it's yours, and there is joy in its making.
But sometimes, you wonder, and you are sad.
Those same people often seem to have a great deal of family support and love bouying them up. Some people, indeed, just seem unfairly blessed.
But that's life and fair, as a woman I used to know was wont to say to her children, is a sunny day.
Of course, you don't know what those people have actually been through, you never know. And if they're people you think are swell, you're just happy for them, for the success of worthwhile things, for the love of art, of the book, of story, of people you're glad are in the world making awesome things.
But maybe, sometimes, you wonder, when the fuck is it my turn? Because for some of us, it seems every small success is beset by the orcs of difficulty. The path is thick with thorns and you never seem to reach those clearings where people, even ones you don't know, celebrate the thing you made, are gladdened and inspired by it, and say so, with confetti and chamagne.
You get tired. You feel discouraged.
You still love the writing itself, but sometimes you wonder, where did I go wrong? Is there any hope? Did I offend some great god of the book in a former life? Is someone hexing me? WTF world?
Of course, this is a useless place to be, and you don't want to be there. You want to be one of the happy, hard working, lucky ones. The in-crowd, the supported and wanted and loved. (What you have always longed to be, since the family of origin evaporated around you and you were, terminally, it seems, alone and unsupported, feeling unwanted.)
For long stretches of time you do well, you're positive, you know you, too, are blessed in many ways. You are thankful and sunny and productive.
Probably you will keep writing, even into your dotage. Because language and story are magic, and you love magic, love making magic, even if your magic remains forever small and quiet, receives no awards, and bubbles to itself in obscurity. Because it's yours, and there is joy in its making.
But sometimes, you wonder, and you are sad.
