Demanding Success and Meeting Failure (Again and Again and Again...)

I've tried to write this blog post for over a week now.

I have always had this complex about success. And sure, success is a complex beast, but I don't mean that kind of complex. I mean that I put obscene burdens on myself, and when I fail, I beat myself into the ground for...well, ever.

But if you follow me on Twitter, or read my home blog, you know this already.

Case and point: My life-long belief that, if I wasn't first published as a teenager (and I mean, novel-published-by-a-major-publisher), then I had failed, and should stop trying to be a writer.

I feel ridiculous even putting that into words, much less into words on the Internet.

In my logical, sane, non-sleep-deprived moments, I know this mentality is preposterous. It's a waste of time and a pointless attack on a mind that is already prone to self-doubt without insane expectations. But when I am exhausted and buckling beneath the pressure, this insecurity bubbles up like carbonation in a fresh can of soda.

I read about teens (or even writers in their twenties, but younger than me) who have this or that novel coming out this year, or their second coming out next January, and I, to put it bluntly, freak out. Shaky, hazy film footage from the last five years speed across my subconscious, inundating me with my lack of publication (aka success) until I melt into a puddle of gelatin on the carpet. Pulling myself together leaves a gnarly stain.

This is likely a symptom of one of my biggest issues -- I don't have a lot of faith in myself. I've been determined to turn my writing into a career since I was seven, but even then, I didn't have much faith in me, just my determination. I'm pretty stubborn, but not very self-assured.

Maybe I am just making excuses for myself to quit, giving myself an out before I ever really have a chance to fail.

If I was fair to myself, I would acknowledge that I didn't have the most creativity-encouraging childhood. Most of my writing came out of necessity, not from freedom of expression, and I certainly didn't have the connections to get published at that age. I'm not saying my family didn't support my creative decisions (though sometimes they didn't), but more than anything, our relationships were in too much turmoil for me to focus on my own dreams. I also endured childhood mental illness, beginning at age eleven, which consumed my life until I was 22 (and I still grapple with on a weekly basis).

When it comes down to it, writing is what I love. It's the only thing that has ever empowered me despite my crippling depression, the only calm to my stormy anxiety. I'm not about to give it up just because I didn't publish the first novel I ever finished (at age 13) -- a MG fantasy/action-adventure/romance entitled Discovering Sandy, that was horrible enough that my floppy disk (man, I'm old) didn't think it was good enough to save.