Tuesday, June 23, 2015
My People Call It Malaise
It is HOT in Arlington, Mass. — hot, humid, and sticky, my least favorite type of weather in the entire world.
What I wanted to do was sit in front of a fan with a cold beverage, but instead I attended Li'l Martini's graduation from middle school, wrapped and prepared his graduation present, made him a card, baked brownies for his graduation dance, took my daughter to lunch to celebrate her last day of school, deposited some checks, prepared snacks and tidied the house for an evening meeting with my writers group, hosted said group, and wrote a sympathy letter to the family of a Betsy-Tacy friend who just died.
Tomorrow will be better.
The writers group meeting was one that I requested. A publisher that I just submitted my novel to asked me about my social media presence, and my sad little answer was, "None." I love and trust my writer friends, all of whom have beautiful, elegant websites (they're listed to the right — check 'em out!), so I invited them over to teach me Social Media 101 while I plied them with wine and snacks and took copious notes.
Writer Jenny is very cross with me, because she was ready to hunker down right then and set me up on WordPress . . . but that is not how I roll. I need to do this on my own, without people breathing next to me. (Or behind me, Husband.) But I will!
Except . . . I just got another rejection from another publisher, the one who'd requested the full manuscript, and I fear that my dear little novel may simply be too old-fashioned for today's market. The one I'm currently working on is edgier. It would probably be smarter to finish that one, sell it, and then say, "Hey, since you like my second book . . ."
All that being said — I'm becoming more and more clear that the writer life is not for me. Not one single thing about what today's writers have to do to sell a book sounds fun to me. Writing itself is awesomely fun when it's going well — but to have it go well, I really need to do it regularly, and that takes time and brain space that I just don't have enough of most days.
In other words: This part of my life no longer brings me any measure of joy, and this is a sad thing to realize.
I will set up a writer website, because I promised my group . . . but who knows what will come of it all. I am tired and discouraged and ready to be done.
But I'm taking the summer off from writing (which will look no different from any other day, but still) — maybe I'll be totally rejuvenated come fall. 'Cause that's the most likely result of a long hot summer at home with my kids and husband around all the time, yessirree!
Also — a good friend of ours is dying, and it is so sad and horrible. She has inoperable brain cancer, and they've elected not to do chemo. She's just a little older than I am, I can barely wrap my head around this.
I'm also completely done in by this most recent shooting in Charleston. Just a handful of weeks ago we were cheering the crazy awesome progress in one part of the world . . .
. . . while another part of the world continues to cling to its gross celebration of traitors, treason, and racism:
I am too hot and cranky to come up with a good conclusion for this post.
I have a little bit of work to do tomorrow, but nothing like last week's schedule. Maybe I will actually get in some fan-and-cold-drink time, put my feet up, ice my beleaguered knees. (After sitting all day at my computer, I rode the bike last night, lifted weights, and soaked in Epsom salts, but I am creaky and limpy today. I blame the heat.)
But now it's time for bed.