Why oh why? It seems as if the moment I make my mind up not to indulge myself any longer in literary delusions the very next thing I do is write. Or rewrite.
There was a cutoff plan: Midway through the return of the rejections. Yet it takes only one, even though they always say consider us again, only that one amid the writer’s version of a slush pile, the one that says This is not our standard rejection form, is enough to reignite the fire.
Sometimes it’s something new that hits like lightening. Sometimes it’s that one that’s been abandoned but still wraps its cord into the womb of mind where it was born.
Why can’t I be content just writing here for me and you? It’s not enough–and I’m sorry for that. To see my name in lights, then? Not really, but surely on the Table of Contents page.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
You have the talent, but lack direction, said Amelia Earheart…
I think you have grasp of exquisite detail and pacing, but I find myself pacing.
Perhaps a point? Just a thought…
Onward.
Odd you should say this. I have the worst sense of direction in the world. Now I suppose it affects all my endeavors.
Mix in a compass, some sex a la Anne Heche and Harrison Ford on an unbelievable island – presto. Instant success.
PS I like Anne Heche, despite all those rumors.