Today, I got up all bright and peppy excited for a day of submitting my work.
I labored for hours over my lists of places to submit and realized I don’t know where I fit.
I’ve published some amazing stuff in mediocre ways, and I have work I’m proud of that no one has seen.
There’s nothing I’m more afraid of than oblivion.
I’m a writer who writes for others, not for the attention per se, but I’m not prose-masturbating, I want the relationship with my reader.
Where are you, reader?
I have a scream inside me so intense it could shatter the world, but if someone would just hear me, it would wait.
If I could just speak where someone would listen, maybe I could breathe instead of scream.