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A Dull Ache that’s Hard to Define
A let down.
Seems like overwhelming disappointment.
I got so into the characters I would dream plotlines.
Then allow doubt to infiltrate all the premises of my novel.
Spending a decade writing something, only to save it in 4 places.
To let it sit, to rot and petrify in multiple folders and thumb drives.
Tried to give the draft a final editing push, but fall back again.
It seems like trash, hardly worth the effort to whip it into shape.
Who am I kidding, no traditional publisher would want this crap?
I’ve been neglecting the manuscript again, a bird with just 1 tweet.
The ‘not-good-enough’ ear-worm haunts me for the millionth time.
My work won’t be in any person’s messy to-read pile beside the bed.
Another low point.
Came across a quote this morning.
It made my stomach drop to the tiles.
Recognition, like a scimitar to the intestines.
It happens each time I let my effing novel fall through the cracks.
Losing more…
