Distractions piling up this week.
First, there’s the upcoming election, which has my stomach in knots. We need to kick out the current regime in the US, but even if voted out, will they go? Even if they leave, what will they destroy on their way out?
Second, we’re having some work on the main bathroom in the house. Which has meant days where the water’s shut off. Days where the workers pounding on the floor right above my makeshift office feels like they’re hammering directly into my skull.
Third, the short stories I’ve been sending out, including the one that I feel is the best thing I’ve written to date, are getting rejected, one by one. I know I’m not supposed to take that personally, but they make me question myself.
I mean, what am I doing, really? Building a writing career out of fifteen minutes here, thirty minutes there? Who am I fooling?
The writers whose stories I know, the ones that have made it, all have spent more time on it. More time writing, more time editing, more…time, in general. I don’t know if it’s a constant source of tension with their families, but…I can’t take that kind of time.
So I’m down and doubting, dear reader. Unsure of myself, and this thing that I’m doing.
I don’t want to quit, but…if all my writing has is a weird half-life, scraped together from minutes in the day, is it something I’ll ever be good enough at? And if all I’m doing is doodling on scraps of paper that might end up on the fridge if I’m lucky, why am I doing it?