Is It Possible To Be a Writer and Sane?

Spoiler alert, the answer seems to be no.

It was a pretty rough week in the psychological sphere this week, which usually stems from trouble on all the ancillary activities that go on when you are trying to be a writer. Yes, the rejection letters for Justice for the Dead keep flowing in, and others are approaching that dreaded “if you didn’t hear back from us by now, we’re not interested” timeframe. Same goes with the short stories I am trying to find homes for, a slow and steady trickle of rejection. I am aiming for more well-known and higher paying magazines, but still, it gives the old ego a bit of a bruising. But the psychological coup de gras is probably what I am doing with BooksGoSocial at the moment.

I finally had the money to take them up on a $99 book promotion, which according to them, unless my book just sucks, I should see an increase in sales. One week in, zero sales. Two weeks in a review club they sponsor, no reviews yet. Going a little beyond ego bruising to ego being given a DDT, a Swanton Bomb, and a guillotine leg drop. (You’re welcome, wrestling fans.) Maybe the real sting of it is not just the lack of sales, I’m used to that by now, but it’s also the idea that despite being a paid writer, a paid reporter, and an occasional freelancer, I still can’t crack through in the slightest.

So, I’ve spent the past week wallowing for the most part.

The only fortunate aspect is that it’s given me an idea for a novel or maybe a loose collection of vignettes, an appropriate reflection on suffering.

If I weren’t a teetotaler, I would need a drink.

Anyway, without irony, cheers!