Cliché

You know the worst part about being a struggling writer? Being the cliché. All the clichés, really. Thinking you’ve got something worth publishing, thinking your work is the next big thing, deluding yourself with dreams of glowing reviews and Pulitzer Prizes, and then somehow ten minutes later laying your head down on the desk and trying to breathe life back into your sinking heart while you realize that every effort you’ve made to get published has resulted in complete and undeniable failure. Where’s the whiskey bottle? Where’s the dark bar with the other “aspiring” writers? Where’s the heroine needle and the self righteous sadness that comes with the odd combination of “they just don’t get it” and “I’ll never be good enough.”

There’s too many of us for it to be anything special, but too many of us for it to be lonely. It’s an odd feeling, like looking up at the moon and knowing that someone else out there is probably also looking up at that same moon, emails out to the same agents you’ve been querying, manuscript full of run-on sentences with too many commas just like yours, but statistically speaking they’re probably not going to get published. Not like you. Not like your manuscript, different from all the rest. Better. Buffed out to a shine like a new red Ferrari. Or a polished turd. A turd with ifs where there should be ofs because what the hell Microsoft Word.

Coffee. I need coffee. Where’s my coffee, I need more coffee to stay awake and write my book. But first, I gotta blog about my writing struggle on my MacBook Pro at Starbucks.