This morning I woke up convinced that I was the world's worst writer and should just give it all up. I even considered replacing writing with learning how to fold towels like they do in departments stores. A worthy lifetime goal, but not quite as satisfying. Man, was I depressed.
There's something that happens to a writer every once in a while where we lose our ability to think in a rational manner. Every word we write is like poison; every thought like the plague.
It started when I finally gained enough nerve to open my old manuscript and see what kind of drudge I sent out on that full request over a month ago. Yikes. Ouch! @#***?!! Mistake after mistake after hopelessly idiotic mistake. Now, I may not be a mind reader, but I can say this: the beautiful, wonderful agent that has my manuscript is in all likelihood going to send a rejection--if she sends anything at all--and I won't blame her one bit. It hurts, but that's life.
However, after a full day of depression and doubt, the old fighter came back and I am now dedicated to revision. I really, really love this book and the characters. I have a vision, and I have become a better writer--with many thanks to the sweet people who encourage me here. Thank you! I appreciate each of your well-wishes and support and I hope I can do the same for you.
So, no giving up today. Or tomorrow.