My wife assures me this is a common malady, but I fear I may have a chronic case, if not a terminal one. If there is an antidote out there, or some white magic spell (hell, I'll try a little black magic, even), or psychological mantra that can cure me, please, do tell.
Put plainly, simply: For the past 20 years of my life, I have been caught up in a sadomasochistic cycle of starting a novel, sticking with it for a couple of weeks, then being overwhelmed by hatred of my projects.
I have finished myriad other projects-screenplays, short stories, memoir. I've even sold a respectable amount of them.
But the novel...ooooooh! I have yet to complete anything longer than a novella.
And it's not a question of stamina. I can stick to a daily writing schedule. It's just that my internal critic/pessimistic side is a wee bit stronger than my self-esteem. I've had hundreds of ideas, written dozens upon dozens of synopses, heaps of first chapters, but that critical bastard inside me, no matter how I try to keep him at bay, he always ends up tearing my baby to bloody shreds like a rabid wolverine.
So, I have become Sisyphus.
But I don't want to be Sisyphus. A novel should be a delightful burden, not an eternal exercise in futility.
And I so badly want to do this. My wife and I don't want children. Our creative pursuits are our progeny. And I am getting sucking sick of all of these self-induced miscarriages.
My wife is my alpha reader, so I can't run my plot ideas past her. I can't turn to her for encouragement or critiques. I must fumble along in the dark, and, oh, these shadows are suffocating.
Yet I have hope. I can-nay, will!-beat this.
But I can't do this by myself. And truth told, I don't want to any longer.
Help. Please.
Put plainly, simply: For the past 20 years of my life, I have been caught up in a sadomasochistic cycle of starting a novel, sticking with it for a couple of weeks, then being overwhelmed by hatred of my projects.
I have finished myriad other projects-screenplays, short stories, memoir. I've even sold a respectable amount of them.
But the novel...ooooooh! I have yet to complete anything longer than a novella.
And it's not a question of stamina. I can stick to a daily writing schedule. It's just that my internal critic/pessimistic side is a wee bit stronger than my self-esteem. I've had hundreds of ideas, written dozens upon dozens of synopses, heaps of first chapters, but that critical bastard inside me, no matter how I try to keep him at bay, he always ends up tearing my baby to bloody shreds like a rabid wolverine.
So, I have become Sisyphus.
But I don't want to be Sisyphus. A novel should be a delightful burden, not an eternal exercise in futility.
And I so badly want to do this. My wife and I don't want children. Our creative pursuits are our progeny. And I am getting sucking sick of all of these self-induced miscarriages.
My wife is my alpha reader, so I can't run my plot ideas past her. I can't turn to her for encouragement or critiques. I must fumble along in the dark, and, oh, these shadows are suffocating.
Yet I have hope. I can-nay, will!-beat this.
But I can't do this by myself. And truth told, I don't want to any longer.
Help. Please.