*No writers were physically harmed during the writing of this essay, nor before or after it.

If you’d rather enjoy my fiction than these non-fiction rants, just ignore this.

I’m a master of self-sabotage. From accidentally smashed tea mugs (the one with the grumpy cat still hurts!) to the failed driving test - if there’s a chance to mess things up, I definitely will. When it comes to writing, I don’t even need to try hard to make a fool of myself. Grammar, typos, you know, that kind of stuff.

In my case, even though I try my best when I post my writing online or send queries to lit agents/publishers there’s that bloody self-sabotage-mental-suicidal-feel to it.

What is a ‘writer’s suicide’? Well, there’s many ways to put it, none of which concerns physical self-harm.

To send your manuscript to a traditional publisher at this day and age could be considered committing ‘writer’s suicide’ metaphorically speaking. After receiving some twenty rejections you might feel like closing your laptop for good, or smashing it against the wall, depending on your temper. Or burning your pretty notebooks or…whatever you use to pour your words out of the depths of your soul into the cruel world.

(Adding some pics of the rejections, just so you’d get the picture)

(Doesn’t seem all that bad, but after receiving some 30+ of these one starts to question their writing, and their whole existence…)

Now, after these infantile tantrums I shouldn’t want to write anymore, right? Wrong! That writing bug, that old bugger wouldn’t go away. After feeling the bitter taste of rejections, I usually want to quit this whole thing. Why waste my time?!

Since the bug wouldn’t leave voluntarily, this one time I decided to use drastic measures…

Publishing your work in any given public space equals potential self-harm. Especially that goes to FB writing groups. Because there’s always the possibility that somebody could (and would!) spew their bad mood (absolutely unconnected to your work) as an opinionated but nonsensical comment/feedback.

…so, huddle up and let me tell you a tale of woes about how I tried to (deliberately!) commit ‘writerly suicide’ or ‘kill’ the writing urge in me.

(Deep breath)

You still here?! No, I’m not going to whine and bitch about how mean people get when allowed to be cruel. Long story short - I (deliberately!) posted an unedited (!) opening of a new novella in one of FB fantasy pages. It was as raw as it gets. The introduction said the following - destroy it, take it apart, do what you must to eliminate my need to write. Stupid, you say? Absolutely idiotic! It ended up as a glorious shitstorm in the comment section, until the admin decided it’s way too toxic and closed the comments. I didn’t see the point in it either and deleted the post. But the worst outcome was - my inner writer survived. It began to fight for its life, kicking and screaming. When somebody took my paragraph and tried to improve it with atrocious purple prose, I had to put my foot down! It got real ugly real quick! I regret not taking screenshots, but my work was called subpar, mediocre at best, cliché, in need of editing (even though I mentioned it’s not edited!) and so forth. I ended up quitting the group.

Was that it?! Of course not! I have another profile on FB, so the next day I went lurking into that FB group to see if the storm had calmed down. Instead, I noticed a post by a lady asking - where did that yesterday’s story go?! She just wanted to finish reading it. (Quite a long piece it was!) AND THIS! This is the reason, or one of the reasons to keep the writer in me “alive”. The good people reading my stories. Showing interest, spreading kindness.

And now for the grand finale, the actual lines I wrote a while ago after receiving a particularly nasty rejection:

I wish I could just quit writing. I wish I could move on. Fuck, I’m not a writer, I never was. What kind of a sick obsession is this?! I keep telling myself it’s just a hobby, it’s temporarily, it’s just a phase or even the notorious middle-aged crisis kicking in early. I convince myself - I’ll just finish the stories I’ve started and then that’s it. No more. But more stories come and I can’t just leave them. They’re like stray kitten’s, staring into my eyes and meowing - “feed me! Feed me! Take me with you, don’t leave me in the cold oblivion!” Once again, I give a heavy sigh, say “fuck it!” and write another story.

So, it’s a compromise then. As long as the stories keep coming, I’ll keep writing them down, sharing and submitting to the publishers, or even self-publish (the horror!). No more ‘writer’s suicide’!

In addition, some more pics, screenshots from a chat with a beta/test reader. Just to leave you on that ‘positive’ note.

*this test reader claimed to be an editor. The story mentioned above was a romantasy novelette “One Hundred refusals”, still available here on my stack.

** for those of you who don’t know, I’m not a native English speaker.

***the cat mug I smashed…😭