The following is an excerpt from a conversation I had with myself moments ago:



Me:  I’m a bad writer.

Self: How so?  Does my writing stink?

Me: No.

Self: Then why am I a bad writer?

Me: Because, for the most part, I only write.

Self: But doesn’t that make you a good writer?  I thought writers were supposed to write.

Me: Well, you thought wrong.  Writers are supposed to write, but only some of the time.  With the rest of their time, they’re supposed to promote, promote, promote.

Self: Oh, so I’m a bad writer in the sense of a misbehaving writer.

Me: Absolutely.  For instance, when’s the last time I blogged?

Self: Okay, I see what you mean.  It’s been months and months and months.

Me:  Tweeted?

Self:  I haven’t tweeted since December.  Why is that?

Me:  Because… and I’m not sure if I should admit this… but … I HATE TWITTER!

Self:  Maybe you’re just following the wrong people and don’t know what to tweet.

Me:  That’s probably it.

Self:  By the way, have you been sending query letters out to get a literary agent?

Me:  Have you not been paying attention?  No, of course not.

Self:  Why?

Me: Because I’ve been writing.  In fact, if I could just leave myself alone, I could get back to writing the sequel to Gold Manor Ghost House.  I’m 68,221 words into Crimson Hall Ghost House, and I bet I could make it past 70k today if you’d let me be.

Self:  Yes, but, what’s the point of spending all the time you can cobble together to write if you don’t have an agent and therefore no publishing house behind you, resulting in the inability to get your awesome, fun, exciting, romantic, paranormal young adult books out to the readers?

Me:  I know.  I’m bad.  Awful.  A real writer, a dedicated writer, a professional writer does it all.  Blogs regularly, tweets, engages readers on her Facebook page, does readings, so on and on and on.

Self:  And me?

Me: I just write.

Self: That’s not entirely true.

Me: I know.  I’m the guest speaker at the Faculty Women’s Club luncheon in March, and I’m going to Westview High School to discuss Gold Manor Ghost House with their book club.  And, I did post something on my Facebook author’s page a few weeks back.

Self: Few weeks, huh.  Pretty pathetic.  Why are you writing this post?

Me: I guess I feel the need for a public flogging, admitting my failings.  The writing is wonderful, freeing, and at times, akin to trudging through a bog in the dead of night – sans the light of the moon (with mosquitoes nipping at your skin).  Discussing my work is an amazing thrill, but all the other stuff … despair.  Despair of finding an agent, of getting a good publishing deal.  It’s the despair, I think, that keeps me from the hell that is querying.

Self:  My advice?  Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do it.  Do the work beyond the writing.  Find the agent.  Post on Facebook.  Blog.

Me:  Do I have to go back to twitter to?

Self:  Let’s not get too crazy.  Maybe for lent, as a penance.