So, I didn’t win the publishing contest. I was tempted to bury my head in a hole and never, ever come out again. Instead, I buried myself in work for the vacation rental company.
BW’s response to my not winning: A writer’s life is full of rejection.
Boy ain’t that the truth.
Am I cut out for this much rejection? I mean look at how long it took me to get back on the saddle after Breaking Dylan was rejected. Maybe I’m just a delicate flower who can’t handle all this shit. I know, you’re scoffing at that image too, huh?
The publishing company does have 25 finalists they are going to offer ‘specials’ to. I broke down and emailed them this morning flat out asking if I was a finalist. I can’t handle the angst. So, even though I laugh in the face of delicate flowers, maybe that’s not so far off.
But, I’ll keep doing this, even as it kills me. What else is there? And, it makes me happy.
I have an interview today for a PT job as an Admin Assistant. I want it and don’t want it at the same time. I’ve not had to report somewhere for a W-2 position since 1999. All my teaching gigs were W-2, but I set my own schedule. This will be dictated hours. It feels weird. I’m afraid of it.
Apparently today’s topic du jour is fear and angst.
We need the money, and the hours are perfect, but I’m afraid to lose my autonomy and flexibility, if I’m to be honest. Now I do what I want, pretty much when I want, and I’ve fallen into a routine with writing and playing Betty Crocker / wanton sex goddess that I really enjoy. But the job will get me out of the house, because apparently everyone thinks that I am fast becoming an agoraphobe. Not having a car for 3 months will kind of do that to a girl. But, now I have Princess Buttercup and have no excuse to remain sedentary.
BW and I went on a date last night. To an Argentinian Steak House. The waiter totally upsold me on my martini, something that BW caught on to right way, but that I never realized until he told me on the way home. It made me mad. On the specials board: Vodka martinis – $6.50. I’m thinking, great! So, when I order it he asks if I want it dirty. Which of course I do. And a dirty is $10. Not $6.50. Jerk. But, the meat was good, well, some of it was. And the chimichurri was to die for. Like, if we hadn’t been in public, I would have drank it. It was that good. Still, it was a great date, and we haven’t been on a date in a long time. We held hands and everything. It was grotesquely romantic and satisfying.