One Hit Wonder

Have you ever considered what happened to your favorite One Hit Wonder?

I mean, really. What happened? Did they just decide they didn’t like performing? Did they “sell out” for a bigger market and never made it? Did they just sing really awful stuff except for one song? Or, was it just their goal in life to make it big that one time, kind of an “I want to climb Mount Everest” kind of deal?

Personally, my goal has always been to be a Million Mid-list Master of Mediocrity. (Say that five times fast.) I don’t exactly want to be a best seller. I just want to someday be so prolific that people all over the world say “oh, yeah, her” when they hear my name. I just want to write. A lot. But every few days I wonder about that aspiration.

I recently started the final edits on my upcoming LDS novel, The Prodigal Son.

High point: I’ve had a few nice “wow, I actually wrote that!” moments. I still think it’s a great story and I’m amazed that I was able to find a way to tell it.

Low point: Letting Satan sneak back in to remind me that now this means I have to do it again, and again. What if I can’t? (Yes, Judy. I can hear you lecturing me on that one from the other side of the United States. You’re so awesome.)

Here’s the problem. I have several WIP in various stages of done-ness. I started each because I loved the premise and I wanted to tell the story, but then self doubt and rationalizations start creeping in. What if I get finished and it’s only okay, not amazing?

I’ve finished other projects since I wrote The Prodigal Son. I’ve liked them, too. But they are still waiting for some editor or agent to recognize my genius. A whole ‘nother problem of inferiority anxiety.

I specifically recall that these types of concerns never even entered my mind the day I announced I intended to become a writer. This is not what I signed up for. I just wanted an outlet for the voices in my head. I was under the impression that those voices could be a benefit to others so they needed to be published. Ah, naive aspirations.

My husband suggests I quit writing and take up crocheting. He knows darn good and well that I can’t crochet. So, I guess my only choice is to quit whining, dust off my “I can do anything ego”, and keep writing a few more books. They may turn out to be nothing special, but at least I wrote them.

I refuse to be a One Hit Wonder. Mid-list Mediocrity, here I come.