A writer friend of mine recently expressed some of her frustrations on Facebook, and how, sometimes, writing can feel thankless. Her post wasn’t hateful or negative, she was merely disheartened. I get it. You pour days and soul into your work, and when it’s all done, the rewards don’t always feel like they compensate the effort.
I was a little crushed that Angst wasn’t picked up for a movie within a week after being published. (I know I’m not alone!) On days that I’m sober and have more realistic expectations, I get frustrated too. I’m a young writer (about the only time you can refer to me as young in any sentence), in the sense that I’ve only published three novels. And, while I feel accomplished, I haven’t met my goals yet, and that can be discouraging. So, when others don’t remind me of why I do it, I have to remind myself.
On a related note, I love Halloween (trust me, this is related). Sometimes I miss the old Halloween when my wife and I would help costume our kids, walk them around the neighborhood for candy and bring them to our parents. I have many fond memories of our daughter, the fanciful unicorn and our son, the lawyer of doom. Now that we aren’t allowed to dress them up anymore, we go to a party hosted by good friends and dress up ourselves. It’s a lot of fun to see who everyone chooses to be. Sometimes clever, sometimes sexy, and often humorous. This year, I broke new ground with my costume that I may not be able to top.