real and down-home self inflicted emotionally fueled ordinary no-more-life-please single-serving maybe death
I had this weekend the first flutter of feeling for writing again, since the dreaded turn-down of the novel in December. I am in fact longing to work on it again, if only to reassure myself that the kind "no" was just the voice of one reader, not the truth heretofore hidden from my biased eyes. I read about the now-stars of the ya scene, those epics with brutal futuristic reality tv stadium games to the death and celebrity intergalactic hyperdeath, and long post apocalyptic marches of death...my slight spare novel of possible death, real and down-home self inflicted emotionally fueled ordinary no-more-life-please single-serving maybe death must seem terribly underblown and pedestrian. no matter. it's mine, waiting patiently for further ministrations.
at 9:21 PM