It’s odd. I feel like I’ve lost something and I’m only now letting myself get sad about it. Not that I’ve lost the novel by saying I am almost prepared to declare it finished—more that I’ve lost this fantasy in my head of what Life as a Writer would be. It’s not what I expected. Door closed, for real this time. And I’m feeling melancholy about it, is all.
I got another freelance writing assignment today. Not the one I was hoping for, but a smaller project writing word games based on a TV show I’ve seen only once or twice. Of course my name will not appear anywhere on it. It’s funny: when I was a kid and imagined myself growing up to be a writer and publish books I never thought they would be books like these. Ironic? Sad? Ridiculously funny? This is life? I don’t know just yet.