Every evening, as I get into my car to head home for the day, I try to convince myself that the day I’ve just gotten through is the hardest of the week. When you say that to yourself every day, is there something wrong? I mean, there wasn’t anything particularly different about today. There was no yelling, no telling me I’m a worthless schmuck, a faulty cog. But, it was still so hard to get through. Why is that? I can’t figure it out.
I think I’ve decided to hold off on submitting “The One About Ian” anywhere. Doubt has gotten the best of me. I think I need other people to look at it again and, of course, they’re going to tell me it sucks and all this confidence I’ve built up in it will crumble quickly. What was it that changed my perspective so much? A few days ago I was raring to get it out there. Now I’m not certain of what I should do with it at all.
I think part of it is that I’m the only one who has put a stamp of approval on it so far. Nobody else has seen this draft. Stef has heard bits, and liked what she heard, but no one else has read it. I guess it means I care too much about what others think. I’m placing too much value on the opinions of people outside my confining and confusing brain.
But isn’t that what publishing is all about?
Well, I have until Friday to submit it to one of the places I was thinking of. So, if anyone wants to convince me otherwise tomorrow (today, by the time you read this), go ahead.