Ach. I am fed up with myself.
I’ve been a self-described writer for several years now and my publication list is just terrible.
It all started out pretty marvy, with lots of articles published about my silly life, a story published here and there, some entries in various professional publications.
Then I got lost in work, lost the miracle of writing, struggling to prove myself in a serious grown-up venue. MS stopped that for me, and in my heart of hearts, I was a wee bit grateful. I could devote my life to writing now – yay! Infinite writing time (except for the mandatory naps and the various disease challenges) – what’s not to like?
Well, five years later, I don’t have anywhere near enough to show for it. I’ve entered contests, had some success, but am NOT applying myself, as my mother would say.
I feel like a “writer wanna be” and I hate it. So I’m setting myself some goals.
It’s time to trust in what I can do, take it on, send stuff out, put on my big writer panties and get out there. Because regrets suck.
I’m taking a page out of Edith Piaf’s songbook…