It’s funny how a simple rejection letter can change everything. The truth of the matter is that I haven’t really written since my notification from The Cincinnati Review, saying that they wouldn’t be accepting my work. Yes, I’ve been SLOWLY working on this children’s adventure novel, but that’s it. I haven’t even written poetry since then. All I’ve really summed up is blackout poetry — the words of others, simple pulled from their original context. Nothing good has come from me since. I feel like I’m dying — like the author inside of me is slowly wasting away.
Hmm…maybe I can try to write about that. All I know is that I am driving myself mad, and I hace no idea what to do about any of it. I am wasting away, and it hurts.