I wonder sometimes if I’m pulling a Huckabee–striving past futility.
I’m fairly ambitious in my exterior, fairly rock-like, too. Or at least I like to think so. But after being rejected almost thirty times by litmags in the past few months, after not getting into a residency…I am deeply questioning myself as a writer.
I wonder if I can write anymore, since my stroke. I realize all my publications and residency acceptances came before the stroke. I wonder if this is just the freaking end of me as a writer. I wonder if I should just stop writing fiction.
I wonder if the universe is waving a Big Huge Sign at me saying, “You can’t write. Nice try, though.”
And if so–what would I do with myself? Just suck up oxygen until the day I die? That’s kind of what I feel like I’d be, if I weren’t writing, even though in the whole realm of things writing ain’t much. But it’s what I thought I had to offer.
I’m surrounded by overachievers. People who are doing things in the world, starting companies, experiencing success in business, experiencing success in the arts. They are so awesome and I applaud them, and to some extent they all inspire me to do better, to do my best.
But lately, I don’t think my best is anywhere near good enough. Or that my good is anywhere near good.
G*d help me–maybe this is just a passing feeling, even though it’s a feeling that’s lingered with me for quite some time now.