October was a dismal month for me. Bits from my journal:
"I feel a great despair about writing. Other people, many of them Horrible Writers have been published. I'm not even on the horizon. Not a blip of anything.
ALL of us unpublished think we're the Best Ever -- just national treasures waiting to be discovered. So who the hell am I to be different? To be some sort of Harper Lee waiting in the wings?
I feel like Aldonza from The Man of La Mancha: "I'm no one, I'm nothing, at all!"
And later:
"I keep thinking that anything would be easier than this Stupid Author Quest. Becoming a Career Violinist, for example. Or maybe an Olympic Marksman. How about a choreographer?
Argh! Despair is a terrible, terrible feeling.
But I am here. Drawn, I suppose, relentlessly to suffering.
I keep expecting the Magic Door to open. I'll step through it and there will be easy, beautiful writing and fans lined up to buy books and get my signature. That's all. Just that magical world. Easy writing, easy fans.
Instead I'm stuck here in the Kansas of my author soul; a place of endless horizons, painful blue skies, burning sun, and cornfield mazes. Where, oh where, is Oz?"
Anyone else ever experience this despair, this hopelessness, and this ridiculous persistence?
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