I signed a contract with Bloomsbury UK today to publish a short story of mine in an upcoming anthology. And I almost didn’t let myself enjoy it.
Because it’s not a book contract. Because it’s not a contract with an agent. Because the book I’m currently reading was written by an author who published her first novel at 18 - and I’m 30. Because I’m embarking on what feels like the umpteenth version of my manuscript and my idiot brain is telling me I might not be good enough to make it better. Because I didn’t get enough words down this week.
Because, because, because.
Well, stuff THAT!
Seriously, my 27-year-old, just-started-writing-fiction self would be appalled. “You’re signing a contract with Bloomsbury!!” I can hear her screaming at me through the surprisingly thin walls of time. “What’s wrong with you?? Why aren’t you flying?!?”.
It’s frustrating that the voice that continuously pushes us to be BETTER, to do MORE, is also the voice that often stops us from celebrating when we *do* achieve something awesome. That the part of us that helps us to improve is the same part of us that’s never satisfied. That the words ‘you can do better’ are often replaced by ‘you’re not good enough’.
What aren’t you letting yourself celebrate? What would your younger self be insanely proud of if they could see into the future? I think you should probably pour yourself a glass of champagne.