Q. How far can you go into a forest?
A. Halfway. Then you’re coming back out of it.
I recognize this ennui. When I take on a fixed-length project, like “write every day for a month” (which is what I’m doing right now), I find myself questioning whether there’s any point to what I’m doing. It feels like a slog. My inner critic starts getting louder that this is all just an annoying waste of time, that I’ll set this aside and never do anything with it, like usual.
I also start finding myself holding back. I don’t want to use up all my creative energy. I want to pace myself. This is a downside to this sort of exercise. It’s not true, and I know it isn’t: If anything, I could be taking the inertia and writing more each day. There’s absolutely no reason to stop at one thing.
I have enough material right now, for that matter, to start getting serious about what I’m going to do with it. Some of the items have been wonderful. Some… not so much. Some are droning, reaching, in need of a lot of spit and polish. Maybe getting rid of entirely.
So far, I haven’t gotten any critical feedback, which is understandable. I’ve only gotten a little positive feedback, which is also understandable. Objectively, I know the best next step is to find a writing workshop group, but then my insecurities really flare up.
It would be so awesome to find a writing group for Transgender Autists. I’m sure they exist. I’m sure I could even make one if I wanted to… I just don’t know where to start, and then my insecurities kick back in.
This is so tiring. I keep talking myself into silence.