We share our insecurities and support each other with empathy, sympathy or practical suggestions.
|The Dying Writer (Cats hiding behind Robert Taylor)|
I have been hors de combat due to Christmas, New Years and, at this moment, the most comprehensive bout of bronchitis that I have had in the past ten years. That in and of itself has me insecure about the necessity of continuing in this vale of toil and tears, and the prospect of taking all the various copies of my books and tossing them in the fireplace and expiring on the couch in a suitably dramatic fashion is beginning to appeal to me. Of course, I'd only be burning the paperback copies, and when I went to expire on the couch (a la Greta Garbo as Camille)two cats would jump on me and sniff my nose, making me sneeze.
I would start laughing and all would be for naught. I would get up, read and respond to all the comments made by kind people who have not given up on me.
I do have a genuine bit of insecurity to share, however, and it is one that most people can at least sympathize with:
I am putting the final touches on a synopsis, which I want to submit to a publisher, and which a very kind friend has agreed to pass on. I am having a horrid time taking the elements and boiling them down into a 2 page (max) synopsis. I have some grasp of it. I think (bronchitis and a headache is impeding my thought process) but it is truly wretched, the book is truly wretched, I am truly wretched, and that divan, complete with Robert Taylor of that age and build, is sounding better and better. How on earth does anyone do it?
I'm off to slog, cough, go to the doctor, and drink tea.
Visit the other blogs on this wonderful hop. I guarantee, the other bloggers have a lot more to say, and a lot more on point. (Cough!)