Two-Bit hack

It's funny, how much losing everything can make you question what you ever had.

I feel like a hack. I feel, right now, like half of my life has been wasted in the creation of a product that was, in the end, destroyed and can never be reforged. I had seven completed novels, at one time, numerous short stories, plans, notes, snippets...now what do I have? I have nothing. Somewhere I have a disc, a backup I made in 8th grade...portions of novels, nothing completed, all drafts I had half-faith in. I have the printed manuscripts of five books, none of them current, none of them a testament to my true abilities. It's all crap I've written before I hit my stride, ancient grade-school artifacts, fossils of my roots but none of the evolutionary product.

In sum...I'm a writer, but I have nothing to my name.

Can you be a writer if you have no writing? Can you be an artist without art? If there's no proof you've done anything...if all you have under your belt are a thousand failed attempts and a dozen lost and well-loved stories...are you anything? Or are you just another wannabe, another poser?

I look over my old work, think about bringing it back...think about rewriting. Can't bring myself to do it. Is it worth rehashing? Is it worth trying to resurrect them, or are they happiest lying in the cemetary of my mind? Once it's been written, is that enough? Do I just want to exponge it from my head?

I have a fantasy trilogy, characters I'm in love with, the most alive and interesting people I've met in my head. It's lost. Do I want to rewrite it? Not particularly.

I was watching Lost last night, on TV, was reminded of a failed dark fantasy novel I started once, was reminded of all the ways I could change it, make it interesting, make it work. Was reminded of how it could have been great--do I want to rewrite it? Not really. As tempted as I was to combine the trilogy and the dark fantasy, to create a new and interesting epic...I just don't have the energy.

I look back over all my old stories, realize I've been writing the same stories over and over; realize I'm harping repeatedly on the same theme. Realize I'm just a broken record--a tired hack, playing the same cheap riff, using a handful of tricks to a contrived end.

I wonder why I'm even bothering.

I look over the novel I'm writing now, trying to pull from the throes of death, trying to stay interested in despite how hard it is on me. I couldn't bear to rewrite the same chapters...I couldn't bear to remember, I was just so in love with what I'd had. So now I'm driving on, half-pretending that I still have the first few chapters, pretending I can just carry on as though nothing had happened...I'll deal with it someday, I guess.

I wish I had something, anything, of any quality that I could show for myself. I wish I had something that I could show off to the world in proof that yeah, sure, I am as good of a writer as I said I was...I wish I could hand someone something to quality and quantify my existance.

After all...I abandoned veterinary medicine to be a writer.
But if you're a writer, you have to write...
...and if you can't bring yourself to write....

What am I, just an empty shell?