Things I should be doing instead of this:
Folding clean towels.
Packing for tomorrow. We’re not going anywhere but the soccer field and a birthday party and to the store to buy a bra, but yes, these trips require packing.
But I’m doing none of those things. I’m updating a blog nobody reads. A blog I’m reluctant to publicize. A space I’m weirdly considering my own. The internet, I know, belongs to everyone and no one, and should never, ever be considered private. I hesitated, just then, before writing the word “bra.” Too personal. But then I felt a bit rebellious. That’s my name up there. This is my second of data. I can write whatever word I want.
I’m writing a novel. I’m writing my third novel. You have no idea, or maybe you do, how depressing this is. I love the writing part, but the realizing part, I hate. The realizing that my two previous novels are never going to be published, not because the industry is in a slump but because they are not good enough. I’m not good enough. Maybe this next one will be good enough, but that’s not likely, and what will I do after that? Write another not-good-enough novel, I suppose. But it’s tiring.
Let’s talk about cupcakes for a minute to get our minds off depressing things like unpublished novels. Cupcakes are marvelous. I could eat them night or day. I eat the bottom part first, the boring part, so the rest of the bites are mostly frosting. I am a save-the-best-for-last kind of person, not an eat-dessert-first kind of person.
Goodnight, lovely nobodies. Play well.