Well it’s December and I didn’t get a single thing published this year. I got my last NO last week and i’ve got some writers block so they’re probably related.
Being a writer is hard. There’s very little in it for the writer. I think that’s the conclusion I’ve had to come to. My passion gives very little back and I think that tricks me sometimes into thinking I have no passion. I do though! I do! Be happy for me! NOW! I demand it!
I’m going to try to start the new year with a few new things…
I’m going to write because I like it
I’m going to follow friends where I can in their lives
Ugh, that started to get gross. I admit it. I can’t say more than two positive things or I involuntarily vomit. Like I’m allergic. I truly am allergic to morphine, it makes me barf, which sucks when you’re in the hospital for ungodly pain from a chronic illness.
It makes me think of all those war movies about men with their legs blown off and their friend stabbing their leg with morphine so they can go in peace. What that means to me is that I would have my legs blown off, my friends would try to comfort me, then I’d barf and THEN die.
So don’t stab me to save me from pain…holy shit that’s a good line…but also barf.