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…
