The black dog has been sniffing around my ankles again drip feeding its poison into my mind. I woke up crying this morning; a sad dream, a nightmare, I don't remember, I just knew I didn't want to get up; wished I hadn't woken up.
I can not guess its coming, it appears to have no reason. Nothing bad has happened, except another rejection from Fiction Feast. My novel is / was coming along nicely, now I can't bear to pick it up.
Even my cat Moo knows something is wrong. At home she follows me everywhere, the bedroom, the bathroom, the garden, she is constantly at my side nudging and pawing me.
I am simply going through the motions of life, not caring if I reach the end of the day. When I am in the company of others, I step into a new skin and no one is any the wiser. I am pleasant, chatty and friendly, but I am dying inside.
I looked at my beta blockers, three boxes of 28, more than enough. I held them in my hands, all of them, a glass of water at my side until a piercing meow broke my train of thought. I dropped the boxes. How could I be so selfish? Who would look after her and her brother?
My children have grown up, flown the nest, they are independent, have lives of their own shaped by happiness, optimism and hope.
But my life has no meaning. I have nothing to look forward to, simply more of the same. I have little to show for my 48 years. No personal achievements, no home of my own, nothing. I have no one to talk to, no close friends, no one to confide in and so I commit my feeling to the written page, I am after all a writer.
Wednesday 11 June 2014
Monday 2 June 2014
Rejection, Shame and Misery
Hello everyone
Today brings miserable news. My entry for Massacre Magazine summer contest has been rejected. 250 carefully crafted words thrown out with the trash by the click of a button. I can't even bring myself to read the winning entry.
I worked hard on that piece of flash fiction, cutting, preening and polishing until I was satisfied; I thought it was good (for me anyway) I thought I had a chance, I really did, but obviously not.
As usual I've wasted my time; time I could have spent on my novel, but then if I can't even get 250 winning words, what chance do I have with 80,000+. Am I just kidding myself; will it be 300 pages of drivel that no one will be interested in?
The story had to be about an abandoned summer house in the woods and this is it.
THE HUNGER
The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now. A drifter through time, slipping between worlds. Decayed and broken but never falling. A deadly visitor. The eater of children; the destroyer of lives. Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain with the promise of base camps and dens. Places to play. Secrets to share. An army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently, patiently for the curious to stumble upon. It is always eager, desperate for the fresh young souls; it has a voracious appetite. I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs. They say my body was unmarked, slumped in the corner, looing as if I'd simply falled asleep and forgotten to wake up. If only they knew the truth. The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty. The very bones of the beast breathing, sighing. A chill in the air now, almost imperceptible as it makes its move. Siphoning the soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality. The damp wood beckons. You sit as tiredness overwhelms until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
I suppose I still have my Fiction Feast story awaiting its fate and another for Saga, but the seed of doubt has taken root again, so I don't hold out much hope for either of them. Rejection brings you down, makes you doubt yourself and your abilities.
Please let me know what you think of my flash fiction, until next time, happy scribbling and I hope you have more luck than me.
Today brings miserable news. My entry for Massacre Magazine summer contest has been rejected. 250 carefully crafted words thrown out with the trash by the click of a button. I can't even bring myself to read the winning entry.
I worked hard on that piece of flash fiction, cutting, preening and polishing until I was satisfied; I thought it was good (for me anyway) I thought I had a chance, I really did, but obviously not.
As usual I've wasted my time; time I could have spent on my novel, but then if I can't even get 250 winning words, what chance do I have with 80,000+. Am I just kidding myself; will it be 300 pages of drivel that no one will be interested in?
The story had to be about an abandoned summer house in the woods and this is it.
THE HUNGER
The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now. A drifter through time, slipping between worlds. Decayed and broken but never falling. A deadly visitor. The eater of children; the destroyer of lives. Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain with the promise of base camps and dens. Places to play. Secrets to share. An army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently, patiently for the curious to stumble upon. It is always eager, desperate for the fresh young souls; it has a voracious appetite. I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs. They say my body was unmarked, slumped in the corner, looing as if I'd simply falled asleep and forgotten to wake up. If only they knew the truth. The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty. The very bones of the beast breathing, sighing. A chill in the air now, almost imperceptible as it makes its move. Siphoning the soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality. The damp wood beckons. You sit as tiredness overwhelms until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
I suppose I still have my Fiction Feast story awaiting its fate and another for Saga, but the seed of doubt has taken root again, so I don't hold out much hope for either of them. Rejection brings you down, makes you doubt yourself and your abilities.
Please let me know what you think of my flash fiction, until next time, happy scribbling and I hope you have more luck than me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)