Rejected again last night, and I didn't cry over it. I'm too busy with these other freelance distractions to cry, or feel sorry for myself for a long extended period of time, as would be my usual, and so maybe it's for the best that I am doing this, not a spare second to put … Continue reading Tough Skin
Do other writers play this game? It's a game I used to like to play -- and one I still play, but with hesitation, because it can hurt -- involves standing before the shelf that might be yours someday. Standing at your spot in a library or, like today, a bookstore. To look at your … Continue reading Do You Ever?
Every day when I get home from work or from writing, E and I have the same conversation: N: Hi, honey. Was there . . . um . . . any bad mail? E: No. N: You didn't look me in the eyes when I asked. There was bad mail, wasn't there? Tell me if … Continue reading Daily Interrogation
When I give up, we'll leave the country and move someplace warm where we only know a few words of the language to get by. I'll name myself something ironic, and by then it will suit me. I'll stop wearing shoes. I'll start drinking again; I'll drink like I never did, maybe tequila. I'll sleep … Continue reading When I Give Up
I'm about calf-deep in the freelance book due May 1 and after a break for lunch and more caffeine in the hopes that I can slog on in up to my knees, I see another writer typing madly away at her laptop. She has that fire where you can't see anything or anyone around you. … Continue reading The Good Old Days
Reasons for reading aloud an excerpt of my short story in front of strangers and maybe some people who know me, not being sure which is worse, and combatting a probable anxiety disorder that runs unchecked without meds because meds would be admitting defeat: 1) I like reading aloud from my short stories. Mostly to … Continue reading Should I Read?
I hate Daylight Savings.
Or a scrambler. Or some kind of forcefield around me that blocks radio waves. Or [insert scientific explanation here]. Because apparently telephone calls do not reach me. People must not be calling me back because they cannot call me back. If they do, the messages are eaten by the black hole that surrounds my body. … Continue reading There Must Be a Metal Plate in My Head