I thought I was doing all right with the imposter syndrome this year, but it reached up to smack me across the back of the head this morning.
Reading my current work in progress made me feel a little less than stellar. Maybe I have finally reached the point where I need to write more than one book at a time? Who knows?
Everything I do kinda feels derivative of someone else. Maybe its a by-product of doing so much reading right now (Seriously between Sarah J Maas' Crescent City and Deborah Harkness' A Discovery of Witches I am dying) Or maybe the reason I haven't found an agent is that I'm just not as good as I think I am.
Jeeze. This Saturday morning is hurting me.
Writing can be a lonely profession, I don't know how people managed before the advent of the internet. Honestly. Of course, it must have been easier in some regards. You didn't have a planet's worth of other author's works at the tips of your fingers. I can find almost anything online and maybe that is the problem today.
Man. I'm in a maudlin mood this morning. Maybe I'll go work on something else. Maybe I'll go read...who knows.
Gotta shake this off ASAP