Home with the kids on MLK day. They, of course, want to do nothing but play video games and argue. Their dad is on his way to Milwaukee for a press check. I’m sitting here, dried out and crusty. Stressed beyond belief. Wanting to write, but feeling uninspired.
Yesterday, their dad told me he is going to work on getting Uncommon Ground published. Apparently he fancies himself a literary agent. This is safe. This is good. This is not safe or good. It allows me to remain static. It will amount to nothing. He has lofty ideas, but not much follow through.
I have too many beta readers. None of them the right people. I’m not good at editing. I’ve lost my perspective. I have no faith. I have new ideas, but am struggling to get them out. Calligraphy is my outlet, because my fingers do not want to type. They are cracked and dry from the cold. The stress is blocking me. I have no faith in myself. (Yes, I’m aware, this is repetition of facts already in evidence.)
I need to be graded. Assign me some work. I’m not listening to myself…less talk more rock. Good theory. Less theory, more practice. Do it. Now.