It has occurred to me, now and again, that I should Make Something Anew. I say ‘make’ and not ‘write’, because I am thinking more in the direction of a graphic novel (though really anything larger or novel-length would be fine as well.)
The problem with that though is that I look back on things I have done and it just fills me with regret. Some pride too, of course, that I have managed to make something that other people perhaps enjoyed or could relate to, or made them think in an uncomfortable new direction (preferably all three?) so yes, most definitely some pride, but when I think back on both books I’ve published (because there are MORE that are unpublished)–and how clean and good my intentions were, and yet how horribly flawed and fundamentally fucked up the final products were–it honestly makes me never want to write again.
Art is so much easier in that respect. Not because my suck in art doesn’t ruffle my feathers (it does) but because a picture is–a sentence. Maybe, a paragraph. You draw it, you paint it. It’s flawed. You know where. You mourn. You are already on the next picture and it’s not–a year. Or five years, spent diligently turning something over in your mind, putting it out, turning THAT over again and again as well, having it published and then thinking damn–how the fuck did I miss that? And THAT? AND THAT?
A piece of art’s flaws are easier to forgive and move on from–the flaws even ADD to the picture, the irregularity is interesting, but the flaws of writing, they are not interesting. They are tiresome and sad, even more so when you created them yourself. You REGRET and that is something I am so, so, so sooo not used to doing. Regretting.
There is so much in my books I wish I could go back and change and FIX and the thought that I could spend so much time making another thing I will spend more time regretting is like ehhhhhhhhhhh.
He Waited on the Couch to Die 