I’m at a cross roads and frankly rather depressed. The world seems stacked against me. You know the feeling, nothing is going right, everything seems to be harder than it should be. The type of days where the septic backs up, the dog is sick over the floor, your credit card is declined, and shoelaces take just that very perverse moment to add lemon juice to a thousand little paper cuts by breaking.
I feel behind on everything. It doesn’t matter if the reality is that I am behind or not, the feeling of watching something slip out of my grasp is the point.
Yesterday my brain was circling at a thousand rpm and unable to settle on any one thing. I spent the day restless and moving from one point to another just trying to stay in one place long enough to do something. Wash a dish. Hang up a shirt. Update a page. Write an email. And even with those tiny hopes I was struggling.
Today appears better on one front. At least, I can string together a few words. But the depression is heavy as molasses today where every motion is an effort of will. Yes, even typing.
At the core of this, I think, is a question I have about my writing. I’ve put out over 80 queries, mostly I have received crickets. No requests to see anything else. And I’m left wondering, is it just not time for this story? Is my writing that bad? Where have I failed? Other than the glaringly empty in-box.
I have a date with an editor for a developmental edit in a couple of weeks. I’ll be sending out manuscript no. 2 for other eyes to look over. And I’m wondering if it is even worth the bother. And the cost. I’m not rich and paying someone else to look over my work is a huge chunk out of what little savings I have.
Am I throwing that money away simply to be told in no uncertain terms that my idea and writing suck?
Is it time to give up on the dream and go back to work earning a paycheck rather than writing/maintaining the house? Hubs might be happier. I might be relieved, but no, not happier. I might eventually equilibrate at the steady state depression of failure.
I’m working in a vacuum. Agents do not respond. Folks say talk to your fellow writers. I look around and ask where? Plus, if I’m totally honest, I’m too mentally whacked to even approach a group. Solitude, which is my safe place, is also strangling.
So, I’m alone with my thoughts as I am most days. And today those thoughts are cloaked in black. This isn’t bottom. I’ve seen bottom, and this isn’t it. But, I’m not in a good place either and my descent is accelerating.