Right now I am anxious. I hear a rattling in the near distance–dishes loosing their calls as they butt against each other on their watery way down. Now someone’s tapping plastic against plastic. And I can’t concentrate. In vain I stab at my keys–clack, clack, clack–punctuating the pauses. Coldplay blares. I wonder why I can’t have it all together. It is a cacophony of noise and emotion here, and I for one am unsettled.
^’scuse bad, purple writing.
I have published one book. I should be happy. But two heads are better than one. I want to have that feeling again. Something more tangible this time. Paper. I want paper. I’ve decided–at least, I think I have decided–to self-publish a novelty book. I wonder if that will fit the bill. I wonder.
And I can’t believe I’m sharing this. Complaining. I should be positive.
Don’t get me wrong: writing has been going better lately. But I have three finished (written and rewritten) books that need homes and I don’t know what to do with them. It kind of weighs on you. As Sylvia Plath said, “Nothing stinks more than unpublished writing.” …or something akin to that.
Do I shelve them? Forget about them? Maybe I should just put them down as experience and move on. Write. I need to write.
Okay, I’m done whining here. On a different note, next week I’ll be posting a short story of sorts 🙂 Just something fun, nothing fancy.
Keep your pen on the page,