Can’t explain why, exactly. Can’t articulate what actually precipitated this feeling of . . . hell, I don’t know. I ain’t happy, I know that. Not peaceful. Itching for a fight, maybe, but there’s nobody here but me. Which means I am stuck with my own stinking pile of angst, just me and IT, which pisses me off. And offers me no relief.
I was up late last night, drank way too much Diet Coke before I went to bed. I knew better, stupid me. And I didn’t sleep well. My back hurt and my dreams, my god, I don’t know sometimes. Last night I dreamed of sharks and lanterns with wax tubes and all kinds of crazy stuff. I was on a raft, adrift. . . I woke up tired and vaguely upset. And late, like 8 a.m., feeling lethargic and discombobulated.
I have to go to Walmarto, get some stuff. Cat litter, eggs. It was rainy and mr kk didn’t want me to take the NICE CAR, the one in the garage. Wait, he said, I’m taking the van to your mother’s to fix her light, just wait ’til I get back. That was at eleven a.m. It’s now after one and I’m still waiting.
I should use this time wisely, send out queries for CHERRY and EFFIN’ ALBERT but I feel too . . . uncentered, maybe. Unfocused. I can’t afford to send out queries with mistakes, hell, my agent pool for CHERRY is dwindling as we speak. And ALBERT. . . crap. I don’t think my query is as good as it needs to be, as it has to be. I keep waffling with the thing, sending one with voice, the next with minimal voice, changing the wording, the ending. I don’t know, I started reading part of ALBERT today again and it’s good, dammit. Why doesn’t somebody just–
And when I think of CHERRY, god. I know that novel is good. I know it. So why–
Excuse this post. Ignore it, I won’t mind because I know what it is: a rant, written by me, and for my benefit. Penned in hopes of what, that I might somehow ease this feeling of irritation, scratch that itch?
I can’t even reach the damn thing.