On the cusp, doubts enter my mind.
So tomorrow I head up to Scarborough in Yorkshire where Fantasy Con 2016 is happening. It’s a fantasy convention (Duh) where books are launched, talks are held, and editors, writers and agents mingle and do business. I’m heading up there to hopefully find an agent to submit Frostfeld: Book 1 to who can potentially sell it to a publisher.
So, I’m down south in Croydon, London, packing, getting ready for a 4.30 am training (Its 9.43 pm the day before now. I’ll be hitting bed soon) and I’ve just….stopped. I’ve frozen.
Anxiety has taken hold and for the first time ever I’m giving serious consideration to the idea that I may have just wasted the last six years of my life writing something that noone will be interested in reading, much less be able to sell. That my book will never see the light of day. That this trip is a colossal waste of time and money that would be better spent on some more productive.
But what the hell else am I going to do with my life? I don’t want to do anything else. I am a man of very humble ambitions. All I want to do with my life is to wake up every morning and for my only thought to be “What cool shit am I going to write/draw/paint today?”
Nothing else is acceptable. Nothing else is tolerable.
I mean, the nightmare for me would be to abandon this, go out there and get a solid form of employment and have my stories be things that exist entirely in my head, with no output.
That’s hell. That’s my idea of madness.
So, I shake off the anxiety and continue packing.
Because what the fuck else am I supposed to do?