It’s a 3am and I’m knee-deep in the trenches of writing a query letter in hopes of finding a literary agent. Obsessing about the damn letter, I’m finding it difficult to go to bed. I was up till 7am yesterday. Took a morning nap then got up and went back at it. Draft four is much slimmer streamlined but now I’m feeling like it’s all in vain. I’m a horrible writer. I’m wasting my time. My novels are shit. Who was I to think I could be a writer. Everyone is better than me. Wouldn’t you agree? Life is shit. Did I say that already? [...]
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I’m not interested in finding a husband, having a couple of whiny kids fighting in the background, waking at the crack of dawn to get the husband and kids out the door for work and school along with myself to then come home cook, clean and deal with the husband and whiny kids again before falling exhausted into bed each night. Then step and repeat day after day until the kids leave the nest, the husband leaves me for a younger woman or I die. Maybe I’m being too hard on the institution of marriage. Perhaps, I’m not seeing its beauty. [...] |
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