Whenever I have an emotion that makes me uncomfortable, I immediately try to think of someone I know (or know of) who's experienced the same thing. Is that person okay? Or close enough? Good. Then I will be too.
I think that started when I was a kid and realized I was going to die. For some reason, the fact that James Thurber had died made me feel better. I think I figured if there was an afterlife, then maybe I'd get to meet him. (This was before I'd figured out he was a major misogynist) And if there wasn't, well, he'd gone through it then I could handle it too.
And when I was going to have a baby, I was terrified. Yup, nearly everyone has a moment when she realizes that this very HUGE THING is going to have to exit her body and it is going to hurt. A lot. Someone pointed out that all I had to do was figure out that many cowards have more than one baby. So obviously, if it was that terrible, people would only have one, right?
But then when I'm uncomfortable about my writing, I don't have any examples to turn to. I'm not sure why that is. Because I keep trying pretend that it isn't important to me? Because I keep trying to redefine failure? Because I don't know anyone else I think of as reasonable who keeps trying long after the world tells them to give it up? Because I'm a masochist? Because I have no clue what else I can do?
So in this case, it's time to turn to the other method of dealing: avoidance. Yay for avoidance, because as our ancestors knew, it's fine to not talk about it.
I think the cure for this state of mind is also going out and actually doing a job. Since I am not finding work, I think maybe it's time to get back to the refugees. Yeppers. Not for their sake, poor refugees. Because when I get in this brain, it's all about me.
You do know a lot of the time my mind manages to leave the navel gazing behind, right? Because I sort of figure the blog is about promo but it's also about the me me me me thing. Turns out when you're of a certain age, you (and maybe I mean me) don't need as much of that me me me me thing, which is good because there's no one else to provide that intense reassurance and patting and rapt attention unless you (and I mean me) are willing to pay good money for it -- from either a prostitute or therapist.
A blog is good enough. Cheaper too.