Swan Song

A few years ago, I embarked on a mission to become a published writer. I'd always had the dream in my head. When I was 9 years old, I wrote a query to the Press Telegram's Action Line column and saw my question in print. I was hooked from, well, probably even before then. I've always been a writer. And, quite separately, I've always wanted to be in print.

I say so many quasi-meaningless things to myself, all of which I realize are not complete sentences. If only I'd really tried early on. If only I'd gone to New York when I was in my twenties. If only I'd said different things when Peter Ridder called me to ask what my career aspirations were. Yes. I had chances. And I handled all of them poorly. Now I'm a 54-year-old woman with a handful of ideas and dreams long turned to mist.

The way the publishing market has turned, no one is ever going to publish me. Ever. I'm a good writer. A woman of ideas. However, I'm not marketably original. Not even artsy-fartzy original. No one is interested in my work, and I've come to accept that.

Even my closest friend hates when I ask him to read one of my pieces. I can see him set his bodily frame when I ask him to listen as I read something. His customary response is something akin to, "Okay. Thank you for sharing that with me."

Shit.

Am I really that bad?

Apparently so.

So, for the first few years of my life, people praised me for my writing abilities. I mean from the 5th grade through junior college, people were saying, wow, girl, you've got something special. Now that I'm growing ungracefully old, my writing is an embarrassment, and I seldom tell people that I do it. Being a bad writer has become a cliche, a club I belong to.

But...

I'm not going to ever stop doing it.

I'm just never

ever

going to show anything I write to anyone

ever again

(well, maybe if you ask)

no.

not ever again.

I'm so sorry for all those who have suffered through my writings in the past. I really thought I was good. I really thought this was my "calling."

Sheesh!

What a ninny I am.

How self-serious and ridiculous.

Okay.

Basta.

Ciao!

And thank you for indulging me all this time.

Go find something better to do.

Many better options for reading, I'm sure.

Ciao.