Sometimes I really do wonder if I’m one of those people whose ambition outweighs her capabilities. Where I dream, dream, dream…and desire oozes out of my incompetent pores. To be matched with zero ability. Where I’m chiseled into a fate of dissatisfaction and lack of fulfillment.
Still recovering from the flu, but feeling (physically) better…enough to dig myself back into an emotional hole, paralyzed on my couch, gritting my teeth against nausea and feverish chills. In this way, I lose hope and belief in myself as a writer. And wonder what it is I’ve been put on this earth to do, to become, if not to write. And wouldn’t it be mean for G*d to determine me to become a very mediocre writer.
I only emerged from the house to check the mail, which by weird coincidence, keeps delivering rejection letter after rejection letter. Seriously–why does this phenomenon coincide with flu season? I swear, I think I was more inspiring and inspired when I was recovering from my stroke, back when I couldn’t write a paragraph of fiction. Irony, irony, irony.
And then as usual, I begin with the fantasy scenarios–you know, the ones where I sublet a beautiful Upper West Side or Greenwich Village apartment in Manhattan for a few hundred dollars a month, with interiors looking like they belong in Architectural Digest…and finding myself utterly inspired and typing my entire novel in three months. HA.
No matter. I’ve got to plod on, despite my despair. It’s what writers do. And in some way, I hope that I am wending my way to inspiring dark places in my psyche.
I sent out more submissions. I’m figuring out a time to retreat to the mountains where I can spend one on one time with my novel. I may just do that when my husband is out of town for a couple weeks.
Okay back to moping and plodding.
Writing Under a Pseudonym 