I’m here wallowing, crying in my beer, wishing I actually had one in a nice tall glass.
So what if it’s 7 a.m.
I’m a writer, even if no one else seems to think so in the publishing world.
It’s dawned on me how brave it is to submit your work, something I do consistently, charging into that same wall of, thanks so much, but sorry, not interested. That’s providing of course, they even bother to answer.
At this point, I can’t give my stuff away for free.
Though published in the past, I ask myself if I’ve peaked and it’s time to humbly close shop.
Then of course, I hear my heroes hailing from the ethers, don’t be ridiculous. We writers don’t give up. What’s that Mr. Vonnegut, fuck’em did you say?
Do you think that would help?
Yes, my humor gratefully stays intact.
Everything I’ve known in my life is fading, friendships either from death or indifference. Health is doing the hula. My career, based on my looks is more or less over. I’m not the beauty, who earned a buck, because of it, any longer. That’s more a practical statement than a haughty one, so please perceive it that way.
What doesn’t fade is one’s art.
That’s what I had to tell myself when once again, third time this week, found a rejection letter smirking in the mailbox…one of my self-addressed envelopes they insist upon because God forbid they spring for postage.
I hear Mary Wesley, that noble novelist whisper from the great beyond not published till she was 71. And my favorite part of her story, when she finally made money after being hopelessly broke her whole life, gave much of it away to those who really needed it.
No one wanted those amazing short stories Hemingway wrote we love so much, until he sold Fiesta that became, The Sun Also Rises. Then all bets were off. They wanted everything Papa ever penned short of a laundry list.
Mustn’t forget the powers that be who laughed in the face of J.K. Rowling’s beloved Harry Potter before it was finally sold, going from living on state benefits to being the first billionaire author of her time. You can bet, no one’s laughing now.
These are buoys in the water…signposts signalling, stay your course.
So, let us dry our tears and head for home, onto the next written page.
Thank you for listening.