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It's been a...few minutes...since I wrote here in ye old blog. But here I am. My lungs are fucked. My guts are pretty fucked. Days and weeks get lost to just trying to keep the physical vessel afloat. It's very tiring being in this body. No one wants to publish my beautiful The Chambered Earth and all my current wips...well, writing is hard these days. Poems I can do, pure emotional language evocations. But the dedication and joy I've always had in writing novels and stories is dissipated in the bodily difficulties and the failure/disappointment I feel about the reception my work has gotten in the publishing community. The work that is published...no noms, no best ofs, no options...some reader love, for which I'm thankful, but... I want to get past this. I want to write and be in the joy I have in writing, until I die. I hate that I've let the publishing/award/buzz/commercial world take that away from me. I hate that my body is so full of struggle and pain.
Social media these days...I used to have some traction on Twitter. No more. So I'm processing here, by my lonely.
So that's the state of me. I could use some support, some encouragement, some love.
Social media these days...I used to have some traction on Twitter. No more. So I'm processing here, by my lonely.
So that's the state of me. I could use some support, some encouragement, some love.
