The Way She Goes: Diatribe of An Upset White Girl


I’m not going to lie to you: I’ve been writing since I was 7 or 8. I’ve written 13 full length novels, 5 or 6 novellas, hundreds of short stories, and possibly thousands of poems/ diary entries. This doesn’t even count all the half-drafts (incompletes) that I’ve either tossed or abandoned over the years and let me tell you– I really fucking hate being a writer. I’d honestly rather aspire to be anything else in this world, ANYTHING ELSE, than be a writer. I’d rather set myself on fire. I’d rather develop a harrowing drug addiction. I’d rather shoot myself in the goddamn face and live forever being shunned from society as a scary Hole-Face Monster–then be a goddamn writer.

It fucking sucks having a deep sense of self-loathing towards anything creative you try to do. It’s fucking DREADFUL having your self-worth be so intrinsically intertwined with something that is SO heavily based upon other people’s approval. Do you even know how many days I’ve had that were in all other facets absolutely perfect but the fact that I didn’t write more than 50 words made it “miserable”? Last Wednesday I got my car back after getting into a car accident from three weeks prior, I got paid thanks to accounting error at work 2 days earlier than expected, I had Subway for lunch thanks to an intern, AND my mechanic knocked 500 bucks off of my deductible for me. ALL ON THE SAME DAY. But did that matter? Nope. Because I didn’t write that day, it automatically made it an “average” day.

What kind of brooding, moody, spoiled-white-girl-living-in-a-first-world-country kind of bullshit IS THAT?

My most memorable, fantastical, euphoric days are usually the days that either: a) the day I finished writing a novel or b) the day I spent writing with the adage of other external greatness happening as well (“wow today was so great! It was Halloween, I got to meet the queen, oh AND I didn’t delete 500 words after painstakingly typing out 15,000 words beforehand.”) Which, in itself, is a whole other level of utter CRAP because my writing should give me ADDED joy not be contingent on ALL my happiness in life.

Sadly, this is how it is. As Ray from “Trailer Park Boys” says, “That’s the way she goes. That’s the way she fucking goes.”

Well I’m over “She” and How “She Fucking Goes” because I’m over having my emotional well-being be twisted and mangled just because the book I spent 9 months writing my ass off on (current book is titled “Lack of Purpose Makes A Girl Nervous” if anybody cares D:) get rejected for the 40th time. I’m sick of . I’m tired of seeing every quote upon quote upon quote from famous writers telling me that unless I write every day and unless I just deal with the crippling self-doubt and just write and write and write hard enough, eventually somebody will validate me. My soul is exhausted from all this self-doubt and external antipathy but that’s just an average day in the life of a writer, which can I also add is just zenith level donkey excrement.

Because that’s all writing is: Wanting others to see what you have done and say to you, “Yes. This is good. This is worth all the time and crying and self-castigation. This is good and so is you.”

I guess what I’m saying is: All of this is just a long, unnecessary diatribe and I’ll probably go back to my self-destructive habits tomorrow. But for now, I’m just letting others out there know: Writing is hard but, hey, that’s the way she goes.