Agonies of a Young Author

Gah. Finals.

In response, bad magnetic poetry.

I want to write.

I really, really want to write.

I have scraps of papers and ideas floating around everywhere, on my phone, post-its, scratch paper, corners I tore off, journals, and different journals, envelopes, napkins, not to mention my computer and THREE blogs. Yes three. (Four, if you count LJ, which I don't.) How did I think that was ok? Argh. Too much. I need to go full-time freelance. I should just up and quit and not look back, because school isn't conducive to writing anyways.

Screw college. I wanna be a professional writer.

Some days, you just get walloped with emotional maelstorms, and everyone- including yourself- should just watch out. Saturday was one of those, and I spent the entire weekend spitting and fuming. For those who know me personally, they know that this rarely happens. I'm a pretty easygoing person, and I don't deal in (outwardly) emotional extremes. This weekend I was a basket-case. I got so mad/frustrated/embarrassed/humiliated/annoyed/whatever that I cried because I couldn't do anything else.

I don't really want to go into details-- there's a slight issue with sensitivity. And really, who wants to dwell on it? I'm just putting out a general warning that some issues are a natural trigger for young writers. Or, actually inexperienced writers; both labels apply. And I'm sure people don't mean to, but this weekend I got my little writer's heart crushed. But enough of that.

So I'm taking my revenge. I spent several hours today looking around for contests. I'm going to rededicate myself to submitting, and really trying to build myself up again. Because sucess is the revenge that no own can argue with or take away.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: Norah Jones "What Am I To You?"
What I want most: revenge. definitely revenge. So I want to win.