I’m trying to sit still for a moment instead of scurrying to the keyboard, anxiously editing another story to send out. Though I did that for a bit before this… I just need to chill for a second and re-find the joy I have for writing. It feels like a job right now, because I’m pushing myself to get that first publication, but truly, I need to dial back the drive just a bit.
Any passion requires longevity for it to be a passion, or else it wouldn’t be. A runner runs most days. So a writer writes… And it’s got to fit in with life. It’s got to fit in with the eating and sleeping and working and loving and the whole being a human part of life, and it should enhance it, above all. There’s a great quote that I can’t remember (I’m butchering it) about how a poem is beautiful, but sometimes life is more beautiful than a poem, and that’s how it should be; a poem just fills all the empty spaces. I guess what I’m getting at here is that I’ve got to start enjoying the process of it all, because this is what I spend most of my time doing.
What good is it to write a perfect short story if you are blind to all the beauty around you? I’ve been a little tunnel-visioned lately.
All of this would be more enjoyable if I got a dang short story published, but I will just have to keep writing and writing not just good, but I mean exceptionally, wow, spectacular, oh my, how did you think of that?, I cried, I laughed, I had nightmares, stories. And then hopefully the publication will come.
By now I’m up to about 20 rejections (short fiction and long fiction combined), if you wanted to know (I’m just at the tip of the iceberg and have a lot more rejections to go!).
I think I’m getting all the bad out of my system and onto paper. I really feel this; I feel it leaving and going away and freeing me up for the good. I just hope the good starts flowing soon. There have been glimpses of it. I’ve seen them, simmering underneath the swirls of text. I just need to coax them to the surface, is all.