Come at me, bro

So here’s the thing.  I spend 20% of my writing time writing and 80% of it aimlessly surfing the web looking for validation.

That’s not true.

Actually, it is true.

Some days.

Some days I feel like a rock star and write a whole lot and look back at the sentences and think, “Damn! That is mighty fine writing right there!” (My self-talk is apparently hillbilly self-talk).

Some days, I come home tired and beaten up from the “real-life” job and sit down to the “Not real-life” job and check the Goodreads and find an unhappy reader.

Someone who read something I wrote and found it lacking.

I really most of the time don’t fret about this. Writing is like cars.  I am not a Chevy Silverado kind of girl.  It’s not what I want.

My writing is a Chevy Silverado for some people.

But when I’ve been trying to make people (all the people) happy at both of my jobs, real, fake, or otherwise, it can make a girl defensive to get a bad review.

Chocolate helps.

But writing more is what I need to do that is the cure-all.  If I get back up on the horse, or the Chevy Silverado (what a confusing metaphor this is becoming), I can feel strong, nay, dare I say, defiant.

I am writer, hear me roar.

So it just so happens that today was one of those days, and I must now triumphantly and defiantly ride off into the sunset on my Chevy Silverado, roaring to the heavens something to the equivalent of “is that all you got?”

And in case I get all despairing and downtrodden again, this is what I posted as my desktop wallpaper:

bird bro

 

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