Writers Lament

I stayed up too late last night watching a disappointing Colbert, and the bedroom was stuffy. Though we kicked off the blanket and turned to opposite corners of the bed, sleep was fitful. By 5:30 I gave up and made strong coffee instead. I needed to get up anyway. I have nothing to present today.

Yesterday, my writer’s group had tepid responses to my … what should I call it? Creative non fiction? essay? musing? Mark called it a newspaper column, which is probably accurate, but hurt. Can’t teach this old dog to give up her tricks so easily. That makes it hard for me to want to continue working on it before the Tolka submission deadline. Maybe I should just file it into my dud folder and call it a day.

I’ll work on my short fiction instead? Subs open for Frazzled Lit in June. That piece could have potential, but it’s about a couple on a mountain road in a snow storm, which shows how long I’ve been tweaking it. Agh. No lit journal wants a winter piece for their summer issue.

Mark said he wanted to read more of that book I’d promised. I cocked my head, and he said, ‘that crazy Hungarian woman who had a date with that gent’. And I realized he wanted a sequel. Now that Orbán is gone, maybe it’s not a bad idea to write a hopeful novel about how peaceful ouster is possible, Except- now would be a perfect time to read that book. By the time I’ve cobbled something together, got an agent, found a publisher, we’ll all have moved on.

I think actually today is just going to be one of those days where I write in my journal. By hand. With a hefty pen that evokes the weight of Dickinson. Maybe nibble on the end as I think weighty thoughts. Or, I’ll just play around on the internet, ostensibly researching the history of liberation theology for the story I really want to write but wonder if I should. Does a white woman sitting in a Brooklyn rental have the right to tell that story?

I should stick to my lane. Agh. Is it a cliche to retire and write your life’s story? It’s the rage now, all us boomers thinking we have a message for the Zoomers coming up. Really, who cares? I suspect they look at our tattered world and see us more as a cautionary tale.

I’m kidding myself, aren’t I?

Temperatures are set to climb to the 80s today, but right now, the backyard is cool and city pigeons are cooing. A perfect place for a coffee and an iPad to catch up on the news. Joggers and dog walkers trek to the park a half a block away, offering another alternative to the day.

But it’s 6:45 and I need to give the 7 a.m. Novelist talk today. It should be inspiring. It needs to be hopeful.

I consider searching on Google for ‘successful writers who have stayed in their seats.’ Don’t need to. Some days will just be like this. That’s okay.

If it was easy, everyone would do it.