For all my “look after yourself” talk to other bloggers on my dash, I sure do neglect myself.
I want real hugs.
I’m so firkin nervous about KFZ getting anywhere that I’m amazed my entire torso doesn’t hurt. As it is, my gut and my chest seem to take turns. There’s hardly a waking moment where I’m not scared out of my wits or nauseated or both.
I have to believe in myself…
of the universal Meh.
And I can’t quit. I can’t let myself quit.
I want a big luxurious pillow fort to live in and someone to wrap themselves around me and look after me and reassure me until the bad feels go away. I want to hide…
But that would be quitting.
Beloved said something about the book and my love of moral lessons and I’m doubting myself. How much will I have to water the message down to be sale-able? Acceptable?
What will I have to get rid of?
I am a good writer. I don’t want to have to churn out pablum just to get sales.
I hate feeling this way. I hate having to whine about it just to get it to ease off for five consecutive minutes. I hate the sleeplessness. I hate the angst.
I wish I wasn’t such a train wreck on the inside.
I wish I had it as easy as it seems to be on film and television.
I wish I could just… get Discovered and all my worries would be over because I could hire people to handle all the tricky stuff for me.
I wish my life wasn’t so full of scraping by all the firkin time.
I wish that nobody had it worse than me, because I know they do and I can’t help anyone yet and I want to… I’d be the whole world’s fairy godperson if I could…
I remember what it was like, scrabbling for change just for the next meal. I don’t want anyone to be there or worse. It was hell. And I’m fairly certain that if everyone had enough to live comfortably, the world would be a better place.
Gotta keep working towards that better tomorrow. Knuckle down. Buckle down. Keep moving forward.
It’s all I’ve got.