Sick again. Coughing like a TB victim. My throat needs ice cream. DH heading to MD, please let him get antibiotics that cure it. I think he keeps infecting me. We share everything, even germs.
Discouraged on the vamp book. No particular reason. Just trying to do edits last night and I’m thinking, “This book sucks.” Really. No humor intended. The old neurosis surfacing. I can’t write, I’m no good, blah blah blah. Oh woe is me. I am doomed as a writer. Doomed, doomed, doomed!
Part of me wants to just chuck it all and stop writing romance. Part of me can’t stop writing. I love writing romance. But the pressure has been on since I got published. Getting published was a dream. Trying to KEEP getting published has turned into a nightmare.
Maybe I’ll just paint myself Day Glo orange and stand on the corner of 95 and Broward with a big sign, “Will write romance for food.” At least ice cream.
Problem is the humor. It’s getting in the way, like a pushy puppy edging its nose beneath my fingers on the keyboard. I want this to be a funny book, but sometimes it feels like the humor is forced. There’s irony in the book, which I adore, but I keep feeling it should have MORE humor. Then I wonder if I’m trying to force it, like forcing my characters to have sex when they’re not ready. But I know erotic books are hot and sell. If they don’t have sex until after page 200, oh dear! Then I get Neurotic Nazi Author Syndrome, performing sexual experiments on my characters to see what happens.
My imagination goes into this scene and I wonder if I’m losing it:
Yes, you vil have sex and you vil have it now because sexy books sell! says Nazi author snarling to characters.
No, they cry out. You haven’t thrashed out our internal conflict yet!
Yup. I’m losing it. Must be the alcohol in the cough meds. Note to self: Drink less Nyquil before blogging or attempting revisions.