There’s a Starman Waiting in the Sky

We have two winter storms hitting this week, Gentle Reader, and I’m cozy warm in my office with a cup of English restorative tea (with milk) listening to David Bowie, missing him, but loving his body of work, too.  CP: “Starman.”  Next: “The Man Who Sold the World.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing because mine is not going so well.  I’ve sent my draft along to readers, but I’m stuck, stuck in a way I haven’t been stuck in some time.  I need to unstuck myself, but I’ve never been very good at writing exercises other than BICHOK: Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard.  So here I am, in said chair, with said hands on keyboard.  It’s not fiction, but it’s writing.  It’s loosening the cobwebs, at least.

But here’s the problem: I have impostor syndrome pretty intensely, and that means that when I hit walls writing, or when I get rejected, I immediately turn dark, thinking that nothing will ever lead to my goal of being a novelist.  It’s the one thing I’ve wanted to be since I was a small child–I came to teaching rather late in life, in college–and I’m in constant fear that I will not accomplish my goal.  I’ve two novels being shopped, but they haven’t been bought yet.  And that hurts my soul.

So… so what?  Does one give up on a lifelong goal?  Or does one write more, keep writing, writing every day and every way until something sticks?  Yes, of course the second, but a moment to listen to Bowie, drink milk tea, and cry a little.  For me.  For Bowie.  For us.

Love to you all, Friends.

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