Reflections On Satisfaction
Nearly finished with “Transcripts and Missives in the Temple of Hoaxes,” after a week-long slump. These little bursts of initiative are too fleeting by half, but not nearly as brief as the feeling of satisfaction in finishing, or getting a story accepted. It’s odd; the very first story I wrote, “The Hidebehind,” was done in less than a day, and it had me bouncing off the walls. Then time went on, and the story seemed hopelessly plain. Worse, every subsequent story only seems to lighten my mood temporarily, fighting against the persistent doubt and envy I have for other writers.
I wonder if this is an inherent character flaw. I wonder if it is something I choose to feel. I wonder if it will ever go away. When I have my first big break, perhaps….but what could that be? Will getting my first novel published or going on my first signing tour matter in the long run? Will there even be room for that kind of thing in the world that is to come? How should success really be measured? Who really has a right to look back on any one life and say they have lived to their fullest satisfaction, made the most of what they had? Is it even important?
Forgive me; I’ve been pretty maudlin lately. Just started working days, and my natural night owl personality is rebelling with a vengeance. I already wear black. God help me if I get piercings and start wearing eye shadow.