No one reads what I write. Then the other voice whispers, Because everything you write is bad.
And then I wonder to myself if the slog is worth the effort, if I should just go back to writing in secret, on weekends, if maybe the shy teenage me made the smarter choice all those years ago. Back then I sat in a quiet place, turned off the world around me, and just wrote and never cared if it appealed, never thought about reactions and demographics, branding or finding my audience.
There never used to be a slog.
Of course, there was never such a thing as second drafts and the words were tantamount to chiseled words of God- to me. Now I worry about you and it does something in the head, that whisper of the critic. The thing is, and this thing is a real bitch, I have to listen to that whisper, take it serious. I have to find a way to make that whisper work because though there never used to be a slog, I still love to write.
I have to consider that my efforts, greater than they once were in consideration for quality, will make me a better writer. Better motivation, however, is the quieter whisper in my head, the one that I barely hear, that urges, Get better, get known, do this all the time.
The carrot for my march of obscurity is the possible end of the road where I make enough money from writing to do this full time. With that comparison, the slog seems trivial. So my few readers, what say you? The slog of life, not just in writing, exist for most of us.
Do you have a goal at the end to make it all worth while?