We're all hit with the gloom and doom clouds from time to time.
I'm feeling as if I'll never make any forward progress. Treading water here, staying afloat but not getting anywhere near shore.
Rejections pile up, literary agents say it's not the writing but the material that isn't marketable, and to top it all off, Irish-style health care is taking a step closer to infecting the American system. I'll end my life on a trolley in the hallway of a packed, dirty hospital where the only physicians available are those who aren't quite skilled enough to enjoy a bountiful private practice.
Why so depressed? Is it what's happening in the world, in my life, in my business? No, it's the losses that have left my NCAA tournament bracket a mass of cross-outs.
No one can judge which team will have a stellar afternoon and triumph over adversity to beat a team they weren't supposed to beat. The best you, the punter, can do is try to guess which group of young men is riding a wave of momentum and which might lose their cool in the heat of battle.
Every day I check the post, to see if the small publisher I submitted to last November has made a decision on my manuscript. I monitor my e-mail to see if the agent who's reading the full will call me to offer representation...or reject the thing.
The one bright spot would be a circle on my chart, a sign that I'm not a complete failure and I could at least pick a winning team. After yesterday's round of upsets, I don't even have that for comfort.
This writing life is a misery sometimes, but like a drug addict, I can't seem to stop.