My fledgling career as a writer is either on life support or growing healthier by the second--I have no way of knowing because I'm not there. Literary forces are at work in faraway lands.
Nothing to do but light a candle. Hold vigil. Seek solace in company of same in Rejection and Dejection at Absolute Write's Water Cooler. My personal favourite is: Purgatory's Pit of Doom.
It's funny like a heart attack. Speaking of heart attacks...
A gentleman called my home the other day looking for my Significant Other, but finding me in a weak moment of answering the bloody phone, said brightly: "I understand you're an author."
Me (deep in Slough of Despond): "Um, yep. I, yeah, wrote a book."
Gent: "That's wonderful. You know, a friend of mine--nice guy--had a triple bypass and when he came out of the surgery, he sat down and wrote like crazy every day for like 6 months. The words just poured out of him. And then..."(Gent gives a soft chuckle that speaks volumes) "He shows his writing to an agent and boy! He landed a huge contract with a big publishing house and I think there's even a movie deal. And it all happened in 6 months!"
Me (mercifully too sleep deprived from nightly vigils to feel much): "Wow. That's, um, swell."
Gent (after a respectful silence signalling he expected more enthusiasm from me for his triple-bypass buddy): "And so you're an author too?"
Lessons from the Pit: Writing is not for wimps and triple bypass guys have all the luck.
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