One woman's quest to make something of herself.
During nap time.
Me: Mother, wife and writer watching forty climb the front steps like a peddler pushing time, and me with nowhere to hide.
The writer part used to come first, the forty used to be thirty, and marriage and motherhood were abstract activities I thought I'd try someday.
Ah, growing up.
If only it was the thrill promised when we were six.
I have written hundreds of articles and essays that have been published.
I have written a book that has not been published.
It has been rejected.
Repeatedly.
Eventually, I set the whole stupid manuscript on fire.
Did that stop me on this preposterous quest to publish a book? No.
All I want in the whole wide world besides being a good mother to my two tiny daughters is to be an author.
But writing is hard.
And the publishing industry is a beast.
And I am terrified of failure.
And most of my days are spent trapped under a pile of plastic princesses or scraping peanut butter off of the wall.
Will I pull this author thing off? Or will I ditch writing, adopt a Xanax habit, abandon my own identity and live the rest of my life vicariously through my children? Hmm, let's find out.
| Me | Mother wife and writer watching forty climb the front steps like a peddler pushing time and me with nowhere to hide |
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Dancing Moon Press Bad mommy bad writer: writing from home while keeping the kids alive, paperback/kim cooper findling
