ouch!

my hubby just got me an mp3 player. it is black. i told him,

ooh, the dark feminine, good job.

his is white. all morning i've been grooving to the soothing (sort of), sounds of blue october.

i'm writing a proposal. it is a grueling, ego shattering experience. i like to think i'm egoless (i'm not). i like to pretend i'm beyond this publishing business (i'm not). the fact of the matter is, every writer wants to be published regardless of how good a game they talk. if they tell you otherwise, they are either clueless or lying (go with clueless, it is kinder).

i don't like that i'm having to measure my works against others to see how they will perform and sort of forecast how mine will (hopefully). i'm a writer not madame fortuna. maybe this fortune cookie will give me some hints, hmm. i've been thinking a lot about how we try to intuit the future. this feels an awful lot like doing that.

writers always pick the best sellers and say,

mine is far greater than this book, because, well, i wrote it.

and tell them what else they get bob

if you pick up this book, you get a neurotic writer, who will sign books disingenously because she really doesn't know why people sign books at all. other than to collect some meaningless scribble.

who are we kidding? who am i kidding? do i really think i even stand a chance beside ann lamott? yeah. right.

can't i just stand on my own merits? gone are the days when a piece of writing got picked up by merit alone, i guess. and the thing is kids, i have so many legitimate reasons why i never completed my degrees, why i've been struggling for every crumb of writerly wisdom i've managed to devour. but none of those reasons will reflect on this proposal. only the bare bones of who i am and what i've done.

it's a frightening prospect really. saying,

i've got nothing but the work to show you. i've got no good reason for you to want to publish me other than i can write all ready. i can write.

but does that affect the bottom line? will the fact that i can actually string a few words together in a meaningful way amount to much? i don't know. i just don't know.

i don't pastor a megachurch, or have a base to exploit. i don't have anything really going for me except i think my book might actually be meaningful to this generation. is that crazy? who am i to think i've got something to say? again, i don't know. i just don't know.

i am really just a stay home mom who homeschools her girl. a poet. and that's about it kids. nothing else. nothing of note to mention. no distinction to garner oohs and aaahs. i'm just me. is that enough? at this point, i'm not really sure.

i'm doing market analysis right now and it kills me. if i am still a functioning human being come tuesday, God be praised, because it will be Him who gets me through this and not my steely will which has gone soft on me the past few days of nonstop writing and working.

i'm pissing and moaning sure. but i want, more than anything, to present myself in the best light. and i'm just scared. afraid it won't be good enough. afraid i won't be good enough. and i know they say,

it's a rejection of the work and not you,

but tell that to someone who just poured their entrails upon a page that it's not them. it still hurts.

i had a friend ask me last night,

are you going to be okay if it doesn't go well?

i said,

eventually. it will hurt. but i will get over it.

the fact of the matter is, i don't have my hopes pegged on anyone but God. it will be an ACT Of God ALL mighty if i do get published. that is all i've got to say kids. i've got no credetials of note, no significant successes thus far in life, nothing other than i can write a few things that make people laugh, and maybe think. is that enough? who knows.

we all go through it, this writerly business is grueling. i sometimes wish i were in emily dickinson's shoes. writing my little heart out. now and then dropping a basket of yummies to the kids on the street. tending my garden. writing for the bliss of writing. living my life out unencumbered by the NEED to be published. just living. just writing.

but no. here i am, trying to sell myself. trying to say, here is why people will read my works, when i genuinely have no clue. i don't. will the book flop? maybe. will it skyrocket? hopefully. will i get a few more books out of this shenanigan? i hope so. but who knows, who really knows.

why should they take a chance on me?

i'm still working on that one. let me know if you've got any ideas. my cute smile and witty comebacks don't amount to much on a proposal.

it basically boils down to slaying my ego and giving it my best shot. rejection or not, i must walk this road. open this door. go through. i just wish it weren't so scary and i wasn't so alone.