Some days, I wonder what I really want to do with my life. Today, for example (It's 19:51 as I write this) I have yet to get any writing done. Instead, I have spent the day lying in bed, thinking of the far-off end to the series of shorts I have only just completed the first of. I thought of the possibilities of having a profound impact on the reader, and then I wondered, do people really want that when reading erotica? Will they not complain in great numbers if the story ends on a bittersweet note? I don't know, of course, because I've yet to release anything professionally that ends sadly. I've yet to release anything.
And as I laid there, continuing to put off the last half of editing and formatting, it occurred to me that I should be more eager to get it done so I could publish the story. It's written, waiting to be sent out. It's my first publication, so by all rights, I should be giddy to get it out there, right? The thing is, I spend more time worrying and wondering about the future than I spend making my way there. I fantasized about a review I might get once the series is done for a while, and read other reviews to do with my "main" fetishes.
I suppose I'm worried that I'm more in love with the idea of being a popular, published writer than I am with the process of trying to get there. It's a disheartening thought to have, so early in the process. And most likely, it is just that. A thought. I'm a pessimist, and I let my mind wander many times when really, I shouldn't. I should be editing instead of thinking, or writing this blog post.