March 22, 2010

You are currently browsing the daily archive for March 22, 2010.

When I was a teacher and a student approached me, bemoaning the fact they didn’t know how to start a particular essay, I would say, “Just begin.  Write a sentence, a paragraph, the same silly word over and over again, see what happens.”  I find that I am having to take my own advice today.  I don’t know quite what to say.  Lost..Lost. Lost..Lost.  Sad. Sad. Sad..Sad.  Disappointed.  Disappointed.  Disappointed.

And now I begin.  I feel lost.  I don’t know what to do about my life, and, in particular, my writing.  The other day, I was in the car with the hubster; I do not even recall what the conversation was about, and he said, rather matter of factly, “You’re not writing a second book.”  My stomach lurched.  “I’m not?”  Am I?  I don’t know.  I haven’t touched it in a year.  I think about it every day.  The characters do new and surprising things,  they change their minds, increase in boldness, but I don’t write a single word of it down.  Sometimes I would like to blame it on this space here and my desire to keep it going, but I really don’t know that it is true.  If I really wanted to write, I’d do it.  I’d stay up late (at least for this granny), like I did with my first book, bleary eyed and enthusiastic and feel the words flow from my fingertips.  Then, just when I couldn’t do any more, I’d watch Craig Ferguson before retreating downstairs and cuddling with the hubster.

I feel sad that I want so much more than I have, especially when I have so very much.  I want my body to look like the idealized version of it that is in my head.  I want to be a famous and financially independent novelist (Reading is Sexy!) who turns her awesome book into an Oscar winning screenplay.  When I win, I want to stand on stage, in the aforementioned perfect body of my imagination, wearing a stunning dress that Tom Ford designed just for me, tell the hubster he is BETTER than sliced bread and George Clooney and sing the praises of believing in your dreams.

I am disappointed that I have sent out over thirty letters to agents and publishers and only had one even remotely interested in representing me.  I am disappointed that I haven’t had the heart to send out a letter since December.  I am disappointed that it always seems I can see my dreams, smell them even, they are so close, yet impossibly out of reach.  I am disappointed for sharing this with you.  I always meant for this to be a positive and uplifting place, full of possibility and hope, but the truth is, I truly feel lost, sad, and disappointed.

Maybe there is, as appears in the photo, a silver lining.  Maybe, I just  need to make a clearing (I’ve heard this a lot lately) for whatever it is that I am supposed to say, be, do, or feel.  Maybe, I need to be okay with not having answers, being sad, and just wondering.  Maybe, just maybe…