Rather depressingly it has become apparent to me that there are a substantial number of people who are women writing competent stories. What worries me is the notion that perhaps we are possibly interchangeable but for one or two quirks of style.
Are we going to spend the rest of our lives submitting our tales hopefully, and sometimes being validated by a publication which will feed our aspirations to be full time writers? It may well never be enough. Why me and not them? What makes my work stand out? I am looking at my words and as far as I can see there’s nothing to get excited about. I am feeling rather upset.
I think that my novel idea is good, exciting, and different. I am also terrified that I can’t pull it off. The necessary length of it intimidates me. I’m not sure that I can sustain a story that long. I need to be braver and at least give it a really good try. I don’t know how to reach into the feelings I have and wrench them out onto the page. So often I feel like an artist who attempts a portrait but comes out with a stick drawing. I know though that when it works, and the words say what I intend them to, that there is no greater sense of fulfilment. So I carry on, word next to word and so on.