On Monday, I was riding high with my writing. I sat down at ten and didn't emerge from my scribbling frenzy until four. There are people for whom six hours straight of writing (I'm looking at you Amanda Hocking) is nothing. But for me, that's a freaking marathon.
And when I finished, I loved my book. It was brilliant. It was a masterpiece. The characters were tiny gods. The story was riveting. The words were electric.
Then there was yesterday. I eked out a whole scene, reread it and decided it was awful and needed to be cut. Then I started the half-hearted perusal of other parts of the manuscript, just so I didn't have to write anymore. And you know what? It was terrible. The characters were one-dimensional. The story was one big, fat cliche. The words were clunky and pointless. The book effing sucked.
I feel like I am a writer in adolescence. The highs are Everest, the lows Death Valley, the self-consciousness absolute. I cannot get a handle on my emotions. And The Book? The Book is The Boy. You know, that boy. The One. The greatest crush of my life. And one day he talks to me, and that day takes on a sublime perfection. Then the very next day he ignores me completely, and life is a soul-sucking pit of blackness and despair.
Yeah. That's pretty much how it feels.