Two pitch story ideas turned down at Los Angeles Magazine. A pitch silently killed on the other side of the internet ether when it hit the Pasadena Weekly inbox. But no matter.
How else would I define myself if not for being a writer? I sometimes smile to think that I had no idea this part of myself was waiting for me when I entered that classroom in January of 2006. And then, all of a sudden, a part of me, a future part of me which had existed all along but was separate from me, found me and we became one.
Writing is hard and there isn't much money to be had. I figuratively bang my head on the wall every day, partnered with the intense fear and anxiety that I can't come up with ideas or that once gotten, they will be rejected, as I have been rejected by men and others all my life.
My solace resides in the fact that while climbing the mountain, it's not really possible to see how far up you are or the progress of your climb; it's only when you reach the top that you can see above the low lying cloud line to the vast valley from whence you started.
Stress and difficulty and that quiet desperation that I live with everyday, especially in this economic climate, remind me to micro-view. Insanity comes about when I try to see the big picture. Better to take things in smaller doses, much like a recovering addict is told to take one day at a time. So shall I. So shall I take one moment at a time, and merely be proud of putting one foot in front of the other. Times like these build fortitude and strength.
Just tell me I'm not a writer and I'll have a few choice words for you.....
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