2.19.2004

Bah. Marcy's friend just lost her daughter, Alex waved to his garbage man then saw him fly 60' to his death.

So for the record, this blog covers nothing but asinine bullshit. If the concerns below are the ones that define my days, then I lead a very sheltered life.

But I Was Doing SO Good

Up until 24 hours ago I had been absolutely confident in my story submission to the Editor. This is new for me. During the the MoP process I was a wreck, checking my e-mail continually, formulating baseless theories of my chances, and generally making an ass out of myself. (Fortunately, Wizards removed their Novels Forum, erasing the record of my on-line obsession.)

This time was different. I cast my line, terribly excited about the prospects. The synopsis was well received, my ego withstood the suggested re-structuring, and I even caught myself daydreaming about certain passages. All ahead, full steam.

But now it's down to the wire, and I'm not so convinced. Concerns about the story? None, but there is just that hole in my heart that you get when you ask someone out for a date...even when you really know that it's a certified Bad Idea.

Doubt. That's all it is. Just doubt.

Unfortunately, it spirals and grows as it falls, picking up speed and emotional mass like an avalanche. Pretty soon what was baseless is running my emotional makeup for the day, riding in the driver's seat and calling out decisions to the runners down below. Like some giant iron robot destroying medieval Edo, I stomp through my life driven by the mad scientist that looks a lot like an old monkey.

Heh. That was fun to write.

Writing keeps me sane. That's it. As long as I'm writing, I still have a chance. Sure, this story won't get published, and maybe not this book either, but as long as I'm still beating keys I'm increasing my 999 Monkey Odds. At some point, something worth reading will come out, and Ta-Da, this will all make sense.

But not just yet.

I want it. If you do too, I hope you get it because -if nothing else- I understand what you're feeling. It's not like we're doing it for the money, because as far as I can tell it doesn't pay a hell of a lot. But you're never really going to get an answer, the coveted stamp of "Yes, this is good enough to be read," until your work is published. Your family can't give it to you, nor your friends, nor your lovers. It has to be that faceless editor that needs the next great work of writing. He/She is the only one with the power to turn this into something real, something worthy, something more than a hobby.

Argh. I'm waiting. I'm kicking at the doors, demanding to be let in. I'm desperately hungry for this. For an answer, and for The Answer.

Are you? I suspect so.

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