Paperback Writer

Good Goddess, Love Me.

I write. I write like mad, about all things. I journal, I ponder, make poetry, make lists, short stories, chronicle dreams. I love writing.

Grabbed a few Writers Digests from the library, and somehow end up on J.A. Konraths page from there, with lots of tips for writers. Very good reading. So, I'm sitting here on my legs till they go numb (I've got it bookmarked) until I come to the page where he chronicles his "adventures" in getting published. Twelve years of waiting tables ( a coincedence? ) persisting at his craft. Twelve years of patience from his girlfriend-turned-wife. Twelve years. TWELVE.

I immediately feel weight place itself firmly on my brow. It's blue and gray and foggy. I turn off my computer, drag my notebooks with me to bed, and fall sullenly into fitful sleep full of lucid dreaming.

What's it all for? All this art? All this craft? All this talent? My busy mind doesn't have rational words to express myself, so cannot speak about it with my beloved, even as we assume the position for sleep and turn the lights out. Poor man. It's the wrong side of my cycle for me to be having a blue fit, but he loves me anyway, quietly sliding his thumb across my brow to take the frown away.

I wake up with a new angle for the current fiction. I groan at myself from under smelly sheets.

Later, when I can speak about it to my beloved, I explain to him how I feel it's all for nothing. What's the point of expending all this energy and passion? All this time? I feel at odds with myself. Because despite 15 hours of "woe is artistic-me", I still get up chewing on plot lines and character development.

He knows the right things to say at the right moments. He knows when it's time to just listen. I couldn't have written a more perfect romantic lead.

I'll continue writing. Continue toting note books in my backpack around town, 5 pens floating around the bottom. Because I'm driven.

The Odds be Damned.