I seem to have misplaced a few of mine. Ok, most of them. Have any to spare?
Here I sit, twitching. Is it because I’m pitching my manuscript on Twitter today, or the unreasonable quantity of espresso I’ve already consumed?
And just what am I doing on Twitter, anyway? I should be wearing purple and making dates with ladies who lunch. Shouldn’t I? I tendered my resignation to Hope a while back, so what is all this? I keep saying I give up, I accept my small life, my downward mobility. And yet, I keep writing. And trying. Not just querying, but things like this twitter pitch event.
Several months ago I saw a new lit mag being formed, looking for submissions for their debut issue. Reputable names involved, and the theme for the issue seemed perfect for a story I had in the files. Dusted it off, polished it up, submitted. Said lit mag seems to have disappeared into a black hole of cyberspace.
When we moved into our current apartment, I did so with the understanding I’ll be here until I have the big one, join ‘Lizabeth, and Husband slides my stiff cold body down the compactor chute. Funerals are so expensive, they’ve got to be bourgeois by now. I’d best stop gaining weight, it’s a narrow opening. So how come I keep watching HGTV, and studying real estate websites?
A long long time ago, in a land of hope and extreme gas shortages, there was a movie titled The End, starring Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise. It was a black comedy about a man (BR) trying to kill himself, who keeps screwing up, aided by a delusional mental patient (DD). Yeah, so I feel like the Reynolds character. If I had a cavity I’d probably be sucking down an ice cold milkshake. I’m supposed to have stopped this nonsense by now.
I’m a mother of three. Special needs/Medical Needs, plain old Growing Up Needs, they are my priority. That’s supposed to be enough, knowing I’ve done/am doing my best to raise three well adjusted, responsible people.
Husband is off today. Flower Child keeps hoping to see me packing the beach bag every time I get up. “Is Daddy off? Why is he dressed? Why aren’t you dressed? Are we going to the beach? Why is it clouds today? Why does it matter how many times you Twitter? Do you have an agent yet? Are we going to the beach?” But I’m glued to Twitter for the day.
I’m well aware of priorities, well aware of *what’s really important.* Health and well being of children, important. Mom’s dreams? Much further down the list. I should be crossing them off. Should have crossed them off long ago. I thought I did. I think it must be some kind of gag ink, those irritating fantasies of me-as-a-person keep reappearing.