In case you haven‘t noticed, I’ve been spazzing out like a fuckin‘ psycho over the last twenty-four hours on whether or not I ought to keep going with my novel. I’ve decided to keep going with it.
I still got a very low opinion of it. I look at the manuscript and think it’s got no future, or perhaps a very slim chance at a future. I read an excerpt of it tonight at the Roar Shack reading series in Echo Park, stumbling so many times over my ever-fattening tongue that I kept thinking, You got no business being at the microphone, asshole. The reception I got was pretty good compared to my expectations. David Rocklin, the director of the series, congratulated me on it afterwards. I’ve met him enough times to know that he’s nurturing like that.
But that’s not why I decided to keep going with No Tomorrow.
I got to the reading early, like an hour early; like the back room where the readings take place wasn’t open yet early. I was there before David and his family showed up and we talked about what was worrying me with the project as I chipped in to help where I could to set up for the evening.
There are going to be…how can I put this politely? Shitload better books than this one. I’m speaking in the scope of my own writing career. I can do better than a zombie book, but the only way to do that is to LEARN how to do better, and I can’t do that without running through the gauntlet. If I give up and pass on this novel, then I’m not trying to learn the biggest lesson: get…to…the end!
Furthermore, if I give up on this book, then I know I’ll give up on the next one. Quitting is contagious. At some point, you have to draw the line, stand your ground, and, even if you don’t believe in your chances, you have to stare your story down.