It’s been almost a month since my last confession. I left off shortly before Halloween. Then Sandy came. And the election.
My fingers hover over the keyboard wondering what the hell to write. Sandy was devastating. The election, for me anyway, was a relief. Now it’s Veterans Day and the veterans are being thanked. Thank you veterans. Thank you hurricane clean-up volunteers. Thank you linemen and women. Thank you donators. We give thanks every night in my house. Thanks that we have heat, electricity. Hot water. Food. Health. An internet connection. Coffee. Pie. Snuggly fitted fleece jackets with those neato holes in the cuffs for your thumbs. Poo poo as my mother would say.
My new novel just got its thirteenth rejection. The twelfth rejection stung like a motherfucker so I crafted a voodoo doll of Editor 12 out of some leftover felt and yarn. Bet her butt smarts about now! No really. The thirteenth was practically a Yes except for the niggling No part. It was a soft landing, that one, and gave me a shred of hope.
The publishing industry is fickle and hurting, and wants a sure bet. Writing quality doesn’t count anymore, as evidenced by 50 Shades of Shit. Have you seen Gilbert Gottfried reading this book?
There are times when this happens: I write a blog post and then hours later, usually in the middle of the night, I wake in a panicky sheen. Wide-eyed in the pitch black I think, what the fuck did I put out there? What the hell is my deal? Why did I insist on sharing THAT? I pad into the bathroom and pee, reminding myself that I am human. I give myself a hug. Then I crack open the laptop and delete the sentence, word or paragraph, creep back to bed and fall asleep praying nobody read it.
I have deleted entire posts in this taut, teeming state of mind. And then I regret deleting. I regret it because I always envision one hater. This hater assumes different forms but he/she always thinks the same about me: that I am an idiot. No one’s ever said as much. Sure I’ve had the odd few who ask me, “How can you share all that personal stuff?” But they don’t usually know me very well. If they did, they wouldn’t need to ask. It’s in my DNA.