I’ve been writing short satirical articles for Medium lately. It isn’t going well, but as I’m not exactly following their preferred template, I expect it to be a long haul.
Am going to try to write here daily again, as well, despite the world’s apparent desire to make me invisible and keep me there.
I’m really discouraged. I’ve been a professional writer on and off since I was a teenager, and despite the many acknowledgements of my competence in both fiction and nonfiction, have yet to get any sort of headway, except for one book that sells two copies a day in Japan.
Recently an acquaintance, who I thought was a friend, published an anthology of things, work done to picture prompts, in my wheelhouse … and I wasn’t invited to contribute.
Given that I’ve gone out of my way to encourage this fellow, that really hurt. And this isn’t unusual. I’ve helped a lot of people get started, and they have no sense of gratitude whatsoever, most of them.
I don’t matter, so they just go somewhere else.
At this point, anger, spite, pain, and self-pity are pretty much all I have left. My health deserted me long ago, and money and relative comfort are not things that people on disability have any right to expect.
I write to fill the time. Originally I was gonna ‘give back’ and all that kinda noble shit but after five years of being a pro and a freelancer I’m reduced to doing research for other people’s articles and links columns with just a little op-ed.
People on the blog I write for have savaged me over and over, to the point that I’m reluctant to to write anything with any depth. I don’t feel like the work would be recognized anyway. So I just do the job — I do it as well as I can, and I’m proud of what I do, but I’m capable of more.
My fiction is relatively subtle and fairly stylized. But there’s no traction there, either. It’s hard for me to successfully argue with myself to continue. It isn’t a crisis of confidence in me – I have no confidence in anyone else at this point.
I’m trying to be above it, and above feeling resentful that what I feel is lesser work is lionized, but I’m utterly failing and the chronic pain and the effort it takes to draw breath are winning the battle.
So I’ve resolved not to support anyone who doesn’t support me. I think that’s fair.
Those who do extend a hand either in friendship or as aid will reap a bounty soon as I write for them these days. The others?
I will treat them with exactly the disrespect I experience, and have all of my life from people like them. I don’t give a fuck anymore.
RetroGrade A 