But, sometimes, when I write, it's all I can think about. Even when I'm not working on a story, I'm all
Other times, I'm far more...tepid. I read more. I click through all the posts on Imgur. I go looking through Buzzfeed (I know, right?) I think downtimes like those are when my brain is percolating. Something is in the slow cooker, and if I lift the lid too soon, I risk a setback. I do have a number of ideas, half formed in the shadows. Lord knows I have any number of partially finished stories that I should dust off and put endings onto, and then do a full on teardown edit of to make viable and send away, a là Michael Seese (who Janet Reid wrote about here).
I got a rejection from Lakeside Circus [published by Dagan Books] on Friday night. I read the email at like, 3 a.m. when I got woken up to DD, so I completely forgot until Saturday evening. Nowadays, rejections (for short stories, anyway) don't have much of an impact on me. They aren't a tremendous disappointment. My first novel rejection, though?
Such is the lot of a writer, of course. A writer who wants to be published, anyway (and who isn't inclined to leap to self publishing, despite casual comments I may or may not have made two years ago or whatever). You write. You edit. You submit. You wait. You get your responses. You write some more. Etc. etc. life goes on. I'd like to know other in-person writers, maybe do something crazy like join a writer's group. Of course, I'd need to find one to begin with, and make sure it's a group I can play nice with; there are times I do not, in fact, play well with others despite my best efforts and intentions. But that's part of being a grown up as well. And a writer.
(this is the best picture I've taken of Elka. I use it often. I'm not sorry.)