standard lament, continued

The thing about writing and publishing (and about blogging and about nearly everything I do, other than cleaning toilets and baking bread) is that my success is entirely dependent on people I've never met and can't affect except with words . . . and my words aren't good enough. Not to mention there are so many words are out there, floating around, more attractively packaged by smarter people.

It's getting old.

I wish it was spring so I could fret about tomato seedlings instead. The onions didn't cut it. (heh. onion humor. Cut onions. Get it? And you'll have to look up the doggie onion danger** yourself. Oh, never mind. all right. Here. Read.)

Anyway. Even my dreams contain whiny failure motifs: I dreamed I was on the 30 Metrobus from Georgetown, flirting with a man. He laughed his azz off when it became clear I was interested in him, so of course I had to pretend I was just kidding. I got off the bus early just to show I didn't care. It was a long walk.


Updated: Also MACADAMIA NUTS. No! bad dog.


  1. Call me stoopid but honestly it never occurred to me there were people more attractively packaged by smarter people and they had better words than you. I was shocked you wrote this. I ran to bedroom, dug around in my closet, found my snub nosed .38 and put a bullet in your internal critic. I think you're safe now.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

what I'm talking about above--the letter in RWR

My Writing Day with an Unproductive Brain