The rosy glow of the new year’s best intentions falls away like petals in a wind of grumpy mood.
I’m so displeased with myself for submitting a story that wasn’t finished, wasn’t polished, wasn’t anything near what it could have been had I looked at it again in a few more days. Or maybe better never sent it out at all because I am finding all my faults in triplefold with writing lately.
All the study, all the learning, all the practice, all for naught. Improvement, yes of course, but from a starting point that fell at kindergarten level while I’m aiming for the Nobel Prize and currently at high school sophomore level in creativity and language use, and further behind, I think, in technical abilities of narrative and understanding what I’m doing, and feel a fraud, a fakir, a phony in the literary field I play within.
Humbling is the thought of someone laughing at my words, or worse, shaking heads and raising eyebrows, moments prior to tossing them away to float down into the darkness of the bottom of the waste.
Even here, I’m talking strange instead of clearly stating the emotion. Maybe I need take a break from writing for a while. At least at all attempts at eloquence and polish (that’s polish, not Polish–in which I can only sing and pray, not speak nor write, and now I doubt my skill in my native tongue as well). I’ll go make curtains, organize the cellar, or go make toast instead.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology