Clueless & Relieved

There are times when all a person can do is admit they don't know jack. As in, I am clueless. I am overwhelmed. I have the fail.

It's cathartic. It's freeing. It's a flipping relief.

Here's the deal:

Me and the writing, we get along. I'm not saying I'm good at it. Truth be told, I'm this side of barely decent. What I am saying is for me writing is like breathing. It's a joy. A joy that makes me want to gouge out my eyes and stab baby pandas, but a joy nonetheless.

What I don't understand is all the other madness: betaing, editing, querying, agenting, publishing, self-publishing, ebooking, promoting, other-thingings.

I've read the tweets. I've watched the vlogs. I've followed the agents. I've stalked the writers. I've taken the classes. I've studied the blog posts. I've sent out the queries. Annnnnd oh so much more. Yet, I'm still a huge fail at understanding what I should be doing.

One professional will tell you write all the time and query all the peeps, while the next professional will tell you don't start trying till you've written at least five books. One agent will hand out helpful advice on Twitter like candy, while sacrasim will drip from the fingertips of another leaving acid burns on all who come in contact with them. Some agents will tell you to write what you know, what comes natural, while at the same time ordering genres and gimmicks on social media as if they were at a McDonald's.

It's a madness that makes my head even more swirly twirly than normal. A chaos that's pulled me into its undertow. I've been so focused on what I don't understand and on screwing up, I've been hesitant, dare I say, afraid to move forward. I've been so worried about fitting in and if people will like me, that I've been scared to say what I think and write what I love.

That's right. I said scared. And it's the truth. Fear gnaws at my insides. My short comings mock me. My hands shake. My brain screams. My heart quickens (and not in the smexy romance novel kinda way).

Yet, as I write this, things fall into place. Once again, I remember it's not about all the things (the agents and publishing). It's about writing. It's about sharing. It's about taking part in the great debate. It's about telling a story that will touch a life the way all my favorite books have touched mine. It's not about being fearless, but being brave in the face of fear. It's about growth and passion, dreams and reality. It's accepting my limitations and pushing myself further. It's about living. And I'm not living if I'm worry about all this crap.

Thusly.

My name's Angela. I'm a writer. I suck at grammar. I use made-up word. I'm afraid and I'm clueless. And I'm okay with that.