I am exhausted. No, seriously… I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and then they put it in reverse and rolled over me again. Sigh, but all of this is nothing but whine whine whine. The other truth, the non exhausting truth, is that I’m happily doing some of the best writing I’ve done since 2009. And I don’t even know if 2009 was a good year, but it was the year I finished my book so I figure that’s something.
I’ve been having a hard time submitting to places because I feel like the writing is good, but I never think it’s good enough for other people to like it too. This is a common writer problem. The “I’m a writer, but god forbid anyone see my work. Who me? No! Look away! It’s too hideous!” I hate this mindset. If you’re writing, you’re writing because you have stories you want other people to read. You’re writing stuff down because when it lives in your head it gets all confused and writing it down brings it to life, it also happens to be the only way (besides the lovely skill of oral tradition, that no one is capable of doing any more because we all have .3 second attention spans) of remembering anything.
But here I am, feeling like I’m writing some good stuff, and clamming up at the thought of sending it out for my collection of rejection letters. Woe is me. Life is difficult and all that.
But I thought I would share it with you. A little taste of what I’ve been working on during the weekends. A little gem. And yes, there is still going to be a small collection of stories available in the coming months. Wee!
“Ms. Bradley? Did you hear the door shut? Ms. Bradley?” Ben, that nice young man, was calling after her, but she was already to the side walk and there was no turning back now. The air was clean, she felt it was the perfect temperature, the perfect crispness, with a touch of metallic to it, like when it came straight out of the purifier. Her slippers felt delicious on her feet. She thought the word and then forgot what it meant precisely, but enjoyed the taste of it in her mouth, regardless.
“Delicious…” she tried it out, practiced the bit at the end, “licious.” She licked her lips, now a bit chapped from the sudden change in temperature, the dryness of the winter.
Ms. Bradley was not always Ms. Bradley, at one time she was Anna. This is the person she remembers the most. The beach house, the two dogs, her painting, that sapphire dress, and Paris. Ms. Bradley remembered Anna in Paris very well.