Sick of Myself

A couple days ago, Karin Tabke asked what challenges her blog readers face for the coming year, and my answer is - as usual - getting an agent (and all the stuff that comes after that). Karin's reply was simply: "Are you sending stuff out?"

Umm... :hangs head in shame:

Not at the moment.

You see, everything I have ready to send out has already been rejected by damn near everyone on the planet (or at least it feels that way). :cough:loser:cough: Which is why I'm reworking Blink - which hasn't been rejected because it was never queried - and trying to write that cute mystery series I've always wanted to write.

Still doesn't make me any less of a loser. I mean, seriously, five years? (Officially, five years last week was when I typed the first words of Spectacle.) And not five years of working on one book, either. It wasn't even five years where I had to compete with a day job for writing time.

Of course, some days are better than others. Some days I hit the world with a bright outlook and cheerful optimism (no, really... I do). Other days are like today when all I can think of goes kinda like this quote from Shelley:

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

And then I get totally pissed and sick of myself. (I can only wonder whether you're sick of me yet, too. Wanda Whiner that I am. Boo fucking hoo.)

So, coming back around to the question of the day: Am I sending stuff out? In truth the answer is: No, I'm too much of a big baby to send anything out lately. "What if they don't like it?" "What if they stomp all over it (and by it, I mean the story and therefore my chest) again?" Wah.

I know I can't sell anything if I don't send it out. I know if I never try I'll always fail. I've heard all the maxims. I know all the rah-rah'isms. I've tried all the tricks to get myself out of this slump. Unfortunately, it all comes back to this.

And I'm totally sick of myself.