I find myself in the weird no man's land of being a middle of the road writer. I'm not sure what else to call it.
I'm no longer a newbie. I have 54 novel-length individual works under my belt with another six collections of short stories. And that's not counting the individual shorts in anthologies or simply haven't been published yet.
But I'm not quite where a lot of other writers I know are. The ones who don't pay attention to their income or what they spend because there's enough zeroes after the first digit.
My issue is there's not a lot of learning opportunities out there to help make that boost to the next level. And I can't make that leap without being honest. And, well, honesty hurts.
It hurts a lot.
Why? Because the current batch of newbies don't think you have anything to bitch about. The high rollers don't think they have anything in common with you. And the folks in your position are too busy feeling sorry for themselves for not reaching the next level.
So you end up out in the wilds, fending for yourself. Again. Because you don't belong anywhere else.
I will continue to to move forward because I'm like a shark. If I stop moving forward, I will die.
And that sucks worst of all.
No comments:
Post a Comment