I had a dream last night that I re-read my own work, and for the first time, realized how bad it was. How utterly and terribly awful. How I operate below even the hacks that write generic thrillers and legal dramas. Below, ugh, medical shows.
How I could probably make a good living if I would just write something formulaic that doesn’t flaunt its themes or have hidden meanings.
And ugh, how it would actually be good writing, not the terrible shit I do now.
I don’t necessarily think I’m awful, but I cannot shake this dream. I don’t even want to go back and re-read anything today. I started a new first draft and even the handful of paragraphs I managed seem to lack any and all coherence or intelligence.
My last few posts have me questioning my own faith in my beliefs. They came out egotistical, like I was some glorified author who really knew their shit.
But I haven’t sold a thing. My stuff is definitely different from anything most people read. Maybe it even sucks. I’m too scared to go back and read it.
Mostly, I think it’s my subconscious beating me back into place. After writing and acting like I knew what the fuck I was doing, it was a less than subtle reminder that despite a published novelette (for free) and two completed manuscripts under my belt, I’m a fucking noob.
And maybe one that will never, ever achieve the kind of literary skill he desires. Maybe I can’t even match one of the countless generic spy novels or romances that sit begging on the shelf for someone to find it and love it, despite its utter mediocrity.
Jesus, am I not even mediocre?
We all want to believe we’re above average geniuses, but as I put in Dead Talker, if everyone’s above average, what happens to the average?
Inevitably, no matter how much we want to be David Bowie or Stephen King or Patrick Stewart, the vast, vast majority of us will not come anywhere near such heights. In fact, based on simple math, if the average sits at the centre, then at least half of us are below average, and always will be. We will suck.
I’m just praying after last night’s subconscious reminder of how far I have to go that I’m not one of them.