Dear Steven Pressfield:
I apologize for the lack of letters as of late (and the alliteration). I have been applying what I learned from your book. I have a quarter of my novel done and two drafts of a short story completed for submission with an artist’s photographs to a particular publication. While I am not one hundred percent in writing every day, I am writing every day more than not. I continue to strive to banish procrastination.
However, I have something I need to talk about and have no one to talk to about it. Heck, it’s not like we’re going to talk about either since this is a one side conversation, but I hope for better feelings and clarification after I place this message in a bottle.
Saturday morning, I woke for my typical potty break (it’s hell getting old). I couldn’t tell you what happened in my brain during those few moments, whether a chemical imbalanced caused the realization or if something from a dream clung on. By the time I returned to bed, I was in a full-blown panic attack.
Forty-eight hours had passed since I asked for help from my husband on the next draft of my short story. Not only had he not responded via e-mail (which is how I sent him a copy of the draft), he had not mentioned my e-mail or my story in passing as we lived together under the same roof. As I reeled under the revelation, with my heart racing in my throat and limbs twitching with adrenaline, I figured out that my husband and best friend had not read the first seven chapters of my novel after I made the request.
My husband had read the first chapter shortly after the request some weeks ago. He frightened me on the couch with a loud, adamant statement that I was an idiot and a good writer. It took a while for his word to penetrate my thick skull. My ego devoured them like a nearly-dead, starving man. Over the next few days, I found it easier to write.
But that night in bed, I slammed back into the dark earth of my depression with the thought that he hadn’t read the other chapters. Several weeks had passed and he hadn’t read beyond the first chapter. My best friend hadn’t read any.
What does it say about you as a writer when your best friend and husband don’t read your work? I went for a walk after forty-five minutes of twitching in my bed trying not to cry. The walk took the adrenaline out of my limbs, but it didn’t do anything to stop the hard, sharp ache in my chest. For as long as I could, I avoided talking about it. Eventually, my husband dragged the realization out of me.
As I predicted early in our fight, he felt guilty. He stated that I should know how he is with things he has to read. It was like he punched me in the chest. As soon as he said the words, he tried to taking them back. But no matter what the judge says, the jury cannot unheard testimony.
What does it say about you as a writer when your best friend and husband, the people who love you, don’t want to read your work?
Despite the distractions of a family birthday part and coffee with a good friend and her daughter, I couldn’t stop the bleeding in my soul. I contemplated giving up writing. Every time I did, I cried uncontrollably. I thought about killing myself because what would be the point of me. I was a failure. All that would be left in my life would be a shitty job I hated and a quiet home life. All my therapeutic methods would have to be redone since I used story to calm and console myself.
When I woke this morning, I was still raw. I found postings in my streams and blogs I follow filled with helpful, supportive things. Now, I face a thought of writing without an audience or any support. Didn’t you say writers need other writers? I have no one and have no idea how to find someone. How can I ever hope to improve as a writer in a vacuum?
I don’t know what to do. Any advice would be appreciated. When you have the time.
Thanks,
Me
