Confidence R Us...is I... Me... oh, you know what I mean

On my list of worries there sits:
1. Getting older
2. Getting wider (from the typo ‘wiser’)
3. Getting Alzheimers
4. Getting up. As in Not Liking It Very Much.

I don’t like to set goals because when I don’t achieve them I never heal from the bruises I get after beating myself up about it. And the bruises never make way for thicker skin. They just make me feel madder – with myself. Hence the absence of New Years Resolutions - never make them, never break them.

And although I like to blame my parents for most of my shortcomings (which makes it doubly easier when they’re somewhere they can’t take issue – hint: rhymes with Devon, letters – 7) I’m not sure how much longer I can realistically expect them to shoulder the burden of my lack of self-assurance.

I mean, surely BY NOW I should have grown up, moved on,  accepted things and dealt with these issues of self-confidence?

SURELY?

I became an adult – meaning I got through adolescence which is a battlefield in itself, right - all those wrong turns, all those difficult choices? I have married - twice but who’s counting? I have given birth - once and that was quite enough thank you - I'm not good with pain. I have been bereaved so many times it’s going to take me a l-o-n-g time to get through the welcome committee at the end of my own particular tunnel of light come My Time....
And I have made decisions in my life.
Not all of which turned out… well, brilliantly (see puberty back there). But who knows? Maybe bad decisions are rubbish for a reason – for a higher purpose than we can ever know in this world?

And one of my decisions was to write a book. Something that I know without even having to consider it for a millisecond, my parents would BOTH not believe me capable of achieving.  Much less add another 5 to the list.

I still remember the euphoria of typing ‘The End’ at the *ahem* end of my first attempt (see, even now I doubt calling it a real ‘book’ because it didn’t make the Grade and get published – but does that make it any less a proper ‘book’? I don’t know). (Is this like the tree falling in a forest and nobody there to hear it or am I mixing my metaphors again?). Anyway…
The euphoria….
Was short-lived it has to be said. I’d love to say I remember tearing the page out of the typewriter with feverish hands and leaping half-naked around my garret making squeaking noises that would shame the squeakiest of creatures (I’m so good with these analogies - I’m SUCH a natural, right?).
But not really. I simply watched the cursor cagily spit out out the letters ‘t’ ‘h’ ‘e’ ‘e’ ‘n’ ‘d’ and half a beat later, deleted them.
I sat back, thoroughly puzzled with what I thought I’d done.
Surely not?
I must be mistaken. There’s NO WAY I could’ve written a book.
Word count beamed at me from a bar and announced I had written in excess of 120,000 words so I must have.
Well, hadn’t I?
I tried typing ‘the end’ in a different font then deleted it.
I capitalised the first letters and deleted it again.
It was too easy to type ‘The End’. Surely if it was this simple, then everybody would be doing it?
And no Tippex was harmed during this particular execution, therefore doubly doubtful.

And there was nobody around to confirm or dispute the fact that I was ALLOWED to write ‘the end’, much less decide that this. Was. It. The End.
*gulp*

Maybe I’d got confused and had just written a really long shopping list without noticing the absence of bread and eggs.
Perhaps I’d just had one v-e-r-y l-o-n-g moan about how sh*t my life had been; aren’t most first attempts/books meant to be more memoir-y than subsequent? I couldn’t very well produce that as a bonafide Book, surely?

Briefly I allowed myself to imagine it already published in it’s shiny mauve cover with a rat wearing a wedding dress peering dolefully through it’s Perspex cage on the front – oh, it was called “Labrats” in case you’re thinking my imagination has gone way past the over-active stage and into the realms of proper Psychosis. And I also allowed myself a little shiver of anticipation at the thought.
I already had a desk in the corner of Watertsones – WHSmith at a push – and I was gaily scribbling my signature on the first page for my expectant readers. My Readers. My God! And I was in the local papers. Not front page you understand, but three or four perhaps. With the heading of ‘Local author signs books for local people in her local bookshop’ or something like that. I’m not good with headlines.

I wanted, no, needed to tell somebody. Of course the first to come to mind was my mum and dad. But even if I’d had a decent connection, I swear the conversation would still have gone something like:
“I’ve just finished writing a book…. (reply) you know, the book I said I was writing? (reply) well, I've been writing a book (reply) um...three years actually but…. (reply) no, no, it’s probably not a real book…(reply) yes …(reply)… no (reply) no… (reply) okay I can hear the adverts are finishing now, sorry … no, you don’t have to call back later, it’s fine."

So this happened anyway – but in my head.

Because I’m not good with the self-confidence thing. And I know precisely why but for the life of me I still don’t know how to grab it by the scruff and shake it up until it becomes my best friend. Or at least doesn't cross to the other side of the road when it sees me waiting.

How do you find it?
How do you get it and how do you keep it?
And is it fully self-supporting or does it require external validation?

Answers please.

Happy Days

Happy Monday.

Yeah, I know, the start of the week is not usually a cause for celebration;

no-one ever popped the cork on a bottle of bubbles on Sunday night, glad that the weekend is over, declaring an urgent desire to set the old alarm clock.

But this is an exception. Because I AM looking forward to getting started.

Last week, has been an odd one for me. I've been out of sorts.
Usually, I'm a horrible Pollyanna, getting on everyone's nerves by looking on the bright side. Comic Relief is normally a gift. How many times can one woman tell their children how lucky they are???

Not this time.

This week I have made Hamlet look cheery.

The cause? In six weeks I have a new book coming out.

There, I've said it.
I know for all of you out there seeking publication, this seems like possibly the worst case of lack of gratitude, but hear me out.

For most of the time, we writers live in some strange half world of reality and fantasy. We spend our days making stuff up and writing it down. It's not, by any standards, normal.
While we create our little worlds, we are the master, the creator, the architect. Sure, some say that their characters 'take over', but even that happens in a controlled setting of OUR making.

I don't know about you, but I find the process magical. Also, as this is my fourth book to be published, I find my confidence at building structure and theme and characters grows. My voice soars.

And though I won't say I enjoy the editing stage, I now deal with it more quickly and less painfully (for me anyway - can't speak for my ed).

But having a book coming out doesn't get any easier. Which is pathetic considering this is a well laundered tee shirt I'm pulling on. I should be able to simply smile and enjoy it.
The trouble is suffer from what is called 'imposter syndrome' ie that I live in fear of being found out.

After six years and four books (five in November), I'm still not convinced I'm very good at this lark.

This might have been acceptable when book one came out. I mean, I wrote it on a whim, having had no training other then reading as a hobby. Publication came in a whirlwind, and I fully expected it to bomb, with wagging fingers staing the bleedin' obvious. I. Was. Not. A. Writer.

But now? Why on earth do I still feel this way? Surely I've proved myself, if not to the wider world, then at least to myself?

It seems not. I've spent this week in a state of high anxiety, anticipating the books hitting the shelves and this time being found out. I haven't been able to write or do much else for worrying.

So this morning I declare this daftness at an end.

This week I will finish the book due out in November. I will go on three ten mile walks, having signed up to a sponsored twenty mile walk in May. I will meet a good mate who works for the UN and get ridiculously pissed before she heads off to Libya. I refuse to think about book four. Indeed I will not speak its name.

So here's to a great week ahead and a Happy Monday to you all.

Not the be-all and end-all?

'People who have what they want are fond of telling people who haven't what they want that they really don't want it.'

Ogden Nash never did an email submission only to realise in the nanosecond after pressing send that he'd typed 'Dera Ms Agent...', but his words reflect the experience of many a modern unpublished writer.

Every famous or not-so-famous author has been through the uncertainty or downright agony of being unpublished. But, for some, publication results in a sudden change of tune. It's like someone who desperately wants a baby and then gives birth to one and starts complaining that it cries a lot and actually needs quite a bit of attention. Getting published can have the same effect.

After years striving at their ambition, honing their craft, coping with frustration, crying over rejections, picking themselves up and somehow grasping the determination to keep going, a writer gets published and soon they're saying:

Being published isn't the be-all and end-all, darling!

It doesn't suddenly sort your life out!

We published authors still have problems, don't you know!

It was OK for them to work hard towards their goal, but if you work towards yours, you must be a deluded wannabe who thinks a book deal will make your bank account groan with a million quid and your letterbox collapse with invitations to soirées with JKR. You sad little person, you – sitting there in your crappy job and dreaming of being famous enough not to have a care in the world. If only you knew the difficulty of being a published author!

To be fair, authors are usually just saying these things because they're knackered and worried like everyone else, and because there's a British inclination to play down success and not to look as though they're showing off.

This is understandable. It's still bloody annoying.

Serious unpublished writers know darned well that life will go on pretty much the same but with a book with their name on it on the shelf. This does not make publication something that isn't worth aiming for. All right, the well-meaning author might only be expressing concern that you're making yourself unhappy over the submissions/rejections process, but this is none of their business.

You can give up trying to get published any time you like. No one will care. But if you want to go for it, it will require a bit of obsession and probably a lot of angst. If you're determined to carry on, what's the big deal to anyone else?

I've never read the slushpile so perhaps I'm naïve about the level of delusion and crapness out there, but I think if you’ve got the wherewithal to write something and send it out on submission, and to be with-it enough to engage with blogs like this one, chances are you are not dur-brained enough to think that a book deal will bring you permanent health and happiness, resurrect your dead hamster and stem the BP oil spill. Serious ‘aspiring’ writers are grown up enough to know that what they're aiming for is just publication, not a key to eternal sparkly youth.

Being published is actually pretty cool, and I say that as someone who is not exactly hitting the big time... or even the slightly-bigger-than-absolutely-minuscule time. Being published is several million times better than trying to get published. It's worth aiming for. So, if publication is your goal, I say: keep aiming, and politely ignore people - even the well-meaning ones - who try to put you off.