The Weary Author Blues

Of late, I've noticed quite a few writers blogging about, or on forums asking about, crises in confidence. Maybe I'm ultra-aware of these entries because I'll admit to a loss of confidence myself. A while ago, it was well past midnight, I was rereading a section of a manuscript for, oh, the one-millionth time. It suddenly struck me that it was horrible, absolutely, unforgivably, irredeemably horrendous. No amount of line editing would save this section of the book. As a matter-of-fact, I shouldn't even bother with a rewrite. I should reconfigure the whole plot development!

The longer I stared at the screen, the faster my confidence plummeted. What in the world had I been thinking when I typed this nonsense? What had I been thinking when I entertained the idea that I could write? That I could ever produce anything that anyone anywhere would want to read? What was wrong with me?

I was tired, that's what. Overexhausted and suffering an acute case of the weary author blues. However, physical tiredness was not the full explanation. I would like to say that after a healthy night's rest, I woke in the morning with a renewed sense of conviction in my abilities. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

When I woke, I clearly remembered how I felt about the work and it took a major effort to force myself to look at it again. I did. And no, of course, it wasn't as beyond rescue as I thought it was. But I still wasn't happy. I still thought about dumping it, hiding it, disowning it. I thought about it and decided to stick with it. Why? Because I remembered something.

Last fall, I was sitting next to a very successful author whose every publication turns to gold. I mean, seriously, based on his batting average, this guy should never suffer a crisis of confidence. So I asked him, "Do you ever get to the point where you hate, I mean, really hate, what you've written and wonder why in the world you ever thought it was good?"

He nodded. Before I even finished the question, he was nodding. "Of course, he said. Always happens. I get to the point where I can't stand the sight of the thing."

Uh-huh! So if a mega-bestselling author has doubts, then I guess I can have them, too.

The inner critic can be helpful. It can also be terribly destructive. It can paralyze and dismember everything and anything without mercy. Knowing this, I work hard to ignore that little insidious voice in my head, but every now and then, it sneaks past my defenses, and bushwhacks me.

This same author I mentioned above shared another tidbit of thinking: "I believe in getting it right and getting it done."

Now, how does one reconcile that attitude with the crisis of confidence?

I suppose that if you believe in getting it right and getting it done, then you don't allow yourself to wallow in the misery of self-doubt, not for too long, anyway. You realuze you can't afford to. You focus on what needs to be amended and you get it done. If you can't figure it out for yourself -- and often you can't -- then you call on your experts, your fellow authors, your agent, your editor. The point is, you don't lay aside the manuscript because you're too miserable to look at it; you don't give in to the temptation to start something new. You get fortification, then don your gear, and march back in to battle.

Sounds good, but after writing this, I wonder. Am I taking my own advice? Yes, I am. My agent has read the manuscript. Surprise, surprise! The part that bothered me the most apparently doesn't bother him. He liked that part but raised an eyebrow at an entirely different section. Best friends who've read the "masterpiece" all found something to love -- or question -- but in no case did their concerns involve the part that so disturbed me.

Moral of the story? We writers often lose perspective, and when we do it can be dreadful. Recognize that, get help, get fortified and then going again. You'll be happy you did.