Disappointed...
One of my stories failed to land with an editor today. In some ways, I'm not surprised. These things happen(It's all in the game.) but sometimes when I think of all the "normal" stuff that I don't know, it really makes me want to cry. Because I'm almost 35, give or take a few months, and I'm feeling like a boring faker sticking with my usual "oeuvre" of half-educated, brain-damaged girlchildren who never really grow past the point they tell time in semesters and borrow money from their gently dysfunctional parents and make witty asides as life sweeps past them. Admittedly, this last one was a bit too much of an imitation of the John Quincy Adams story, but "Write what you know," is becoming a cage(Yes, Dr. Freud, so is my life. Bingo.)
I took the chance, but I'm sorry it didn't really work. But how could it? I know nothing whatever of creeping, or Boston, or any of a thousand things I tossed in this thing like fruit in a smoothie, but I have taken everything I do know and have worn it rags. I'm such a good girl, I'd like to dunk my own head in a toilet.
Unless you think the fiction reading public thinks buying wheelchair cushion counts as an epic quest...otherwise I think I'm fucked.
Sigh.
I took the chance, but I'm sorry it didn't really work. But how could it? I know nothing whatever of creeping, or Boston, or any of a thousand things I tossed in this thing like fruit in a smoothie, but I have taken everything I do know and have worn it rags. I'm such a good girl, I'd like to dunk my own head in a toilet.
Unless you think the fiction reading public thinks buying wheelchair cushion counts as an epic quest...otherwise I think I'm fucked.
Sigh.