I received a rather harsh review of my last novel, No More Blue Roses, today. I should probably explain that when I ask someone to read my novels, or when someone (rarely) asks to read them, I also request as much feedback as I can get.
Well, I got a mouthful. I've had people hate my writing before (pick any agent or publisher in the US) but I've never elicited so much anger and resentment before.
Vicky worried about me when I face rejection. What she probably doesn't realize is that I've been living with this for a couple of decades. She's new to the picture; she's only seen it for a couple of years.
So, then, why do I do this? Why do I keep writing novels and plays after all this rejection?
Those are questions I can't really answer. Masochism is the easy answer but it's not entirely true. I may ask for rejection but I don't really enjoy it. I could say that I possess the courage to continue despite the grief... if I believed I did.
The fact of the matter is that I enjoy doing it - No, not really - I have to do it! I feel these stories pushing their way out like a new life and to not put them on paper would be to deliver it still born. And, if I'm going to write, I might as well try to sell them, too. Right?
Anyway, the good news is that I probably won't feel like such a monster for some time. (Maybe "monster" is too strong a word but you didn't see the response I saw. My book was received about as well as a child tearing wings off a bird.)
Meanwhile, my friends are starting to get that look on their faces when I talk about my writing, that tired, exhausted, bored look. It's been a long road for them, too.
You can probably understand why I would never want any child Vicky and I to go into the arts.