I used to write, sit back, and hope readers would find my writing.
I intentionally chose reputable publications with good-sized audiences.
It’s up to them to spread the word for us writers, I thought.
If we’re not getting read, they’re not doing their damn job!
Relying on other people to get me where I want to be.
Blaming other people for why I’m not where I want to be.
Feeling frustrated, dejected, and hopeless about this writing gig I so wanted to make work. This gig that takes countless hours that would amount to a ridiculous per hourly rate and hoists me on a rollercoaster of emotions. …
At university, I skidded into love with a dude more into computer games than remembering dates with me.
The after-effect of it hurt like hell. The idea of commitment made me queasy for years. I was happy to numb my emotions, throw myself into my hobbies, friends, and meaningless, fun, fabulous travel flings where you didn’t have to bother about swapping numbers afterward.
It was novel and fun. Like the characters in my favorite classic comedy, Seinfeld, I figured there was less chance to get screwed over if I didn’t take it all too seriously.
In Seinfeld, Jerry got dropped because of ‘the pick’ — a woman he dated thought he picked his nose in the car though he hadn’t. It only looked like that from the side. George dates a woman and loses her when she discovers he’s not actually the marine biologist he’s led her to believe. Elaine got ditched for sending a Christmas card to a boyfriend with her nipple exposed. …