Jeffrey and Victoria; I'm putting characters in here along the way so I'll feel better.
But it's Sunday. Anyone who's a die-hard Twenty One Pilots fan knows that Sundays are, to say the least, undesirable. I've had tons of stellar #amwriting!!!! days, but sometimes, that doesn't pull through. And I wake up in a fuzzy mood, and everything feels blind and dreadful, like when your windshield wipers can't swipe raindrops away fast enough for you to feel confident in your direction. To say the least, today was one of those days.
“But I sent four new queries!” my logical side protests. “And pulled a 2k one-day in an AWESOME scene in Host!”
In emotion, even those reminders make my stomach clench in that weird way it does when you feel like you're about to cry. My throat isn't closing up, but I can't shake the dread.
Quinn and Katrina
In the first mode, I'm invincible. Something tells me that this is it, that I'm almost to the end of the battle. It's like the night before the last day of school, or music blasting through headphones as your car speeds along the coast. It’s the build up in the bridge of a song, racing to the crest of the harmonies until the wave breaks and the passion of the chorus hits as if the heart hadn't been there before. In the end, it's one whisper: soon.
And the second setting is the silent anxiety. Being on edge without danger in sight. I doubt the assurance of friends, I doubt the positivity of family, and I doubt the potential in myself.
The first one is great. Stellar. Beautiful. The second, not so much.
So, in short, I'm doubting my chances at publishing Renegade. I have been all day. Before, I never really questioned my writing abilities; when I sought to compare myself, I only had my peers. Now, I'm branching out into the Real World, where finishing the book is just half the battle. But in those moments, I made myself send those queries. I made myself write, which sent my mood shooting skyward.
Nathan and baby Catticus.
I know in my heart that I have to try. I owe it to my friends and family, who have remained incredibly patient with me when I spent hours rambling about plots. I owe it to these characters, who I've known longer than some of my closest companions, and who have become my deepest confidants and guarded my darkest secrets. I owe it to anyone who could grow and learn from my writing. I owe it to who I am now, and I owe it to who I was when I started the very first draft of this novel.
Anyone questioning their path -- anyone reading this: “Don't let them see you break.”