Life bothers me lately.
In the 11 years since graduation from college, writing has been mostly on the side, in those odd moments, whenever I could, because my life was wiped out beneath me.
It took two years to get published. Six for a pro credit in fiction. And then it was a landslide, I began to support myself writing. I was making it work. Then it all went away. And my last publishing credit was 2011.
Now I have one finished book. I have a second in revision. I have four short stories that I’m shopping around. Seven I’ve trunked for lack of market but fiddle with on and off looking for more places to send out.
And I have this overwhelming feeling that I’ve screwed up. That did everything wrong and now there is no recourse. It’s 11 years later and my life has been pulled out from under me. I can’t seem to get published and I’m looming on the large end of my 30’s with nothing to show for it.
All I ever want to do was write. I’m beginning to wonder if I just suck. I can’t get a job doing it. No one wants my work.
I’m never going quit, but I feel a little more sad every day.