Onwards and sideways, I mean upwards.

So much for blogging regularly.

I foolishly allowed some personal stuff that really hurt me through the second half of last year, to drag on into this year. Tried to pick myself up, dust myself down, and do the “Onwards and upwards!” thing, but ended up going more sideways than upwards. Things got done, progress was made, words were written, but I was on autopilot.

I started a blog to help me organise my thoughts and feelings about shitshows like what happened in the middle of last year, to help me develop some thicker skin, some resilience, but it’s been hard work. Those of you who know me well (you have my sympathies) will know I can be just a wee bit guilty of suffering from a small modicum of what some might call not quite complete self confidence. And those of you who know me well (again, my sympathies) will also know that I may not be brimming over and awash with that positive self-image stuff which I’m sure every other bugger who ever wrote a book has in abundance.

Last year was damaging, but I think I’ve come out of it a bit harder, a tad less over-sensitive, and with some much-needed self-protectionist bloody-mindedness.

My debut is out on submission, and I – of course – am fully expecting the world and its dog to reject my amateurish scribblings with scorn and disdain and – if I’m lucky – a few pointers as to just why I continue to receive further rejections to add to my zealously-protected long list of reasons to pummel and flagellate* myself on a regular basis.

But here’s the thing. I rambled previously about a kind of atheistic leap-of-faith I learned I could make. Enough people have told me, with staggering reserves of patience, that I can write, and that I can invent compelling characters who I put through engaging and gripping ordeals. And I’m not talking about well-intentioned friends who would find something good to say about a rancid turd in a box, if told them I was proud of it, or the woman who claims to be my mother and is delusional to a ridiculous extent about the wondrous brilliance of the fruit of her loins. I’m talking about other writers (I nearly wrote *fellow* writers, just then) and editors and agents and publishers and bloggers who have told me that Yes, I can bloody write.

So, I’m hanging on to that. The fact that I have agent who sees enough value in my writing buy me dinner a couple of times (vegan burritos – what were you thinking, Kevin?) and put some professional time into trying to pimp me out, should tell me I have some talent. As lovely a guy as Kevin is, he wouldn’t be trying to sell me if there wasn’t (weren’t?) potential earnings in it for him, right?

Today’s lesson – when all personal reserves of self-belief and self-respect have drained away or been blasted into sub-atomic sentiment particles by “life events”, bloody well listen to others.

Most of them mean well.

xxx

* Today’s blog was brought to you by the word “flagellate”, which is not used nearly often enough in normal conversation, if you ask me.