Bittersweet ending

I was thinking today, as I often do, that this blog makes me seem as though I'm completely cloistered and have no idea of what goes on in the world. I sound like I am just wailing on about my mental distress related to writing. But, I finished with my writing class today and got some good feedback. So now I can focus a little better. I've been sticking to the theme too much. I've always been good at following the rules, even if I just make them up myself.

So here's a little departure. I am preparing for a much needed vacation with the family. It might be more work than vacation, but at least I'll be in California and Hawaii. I try to find value in every trip, even if I'm just listening to my great uncle ramble on about how he used to raise hell in his day.

My daughter won't really appreciate the flowing lava or the black sand beaches in Hawaii, but I will. It's like looking at the gooey center of a cherry cordial without having to open it. If I had amazing binoculars or a super night-vision telescope, I could stick it down the volcano's mouth and literally see what the inside of the earth looks like in its most dynamic form.

Interesting how everything in life and nature (really everything, when you think about it) can be reduced to some crass sexual innuendo...I'll let you figure this one out. Actually, this one is kind of cool at the same time, since I would be the volcano in this case. Again it's all symbolic of birth and renewal tempered by danger, pain and even death.

The Last Lap

It's almost over already and I'm just now starting to feel the futility of it all. Two weeks are left in my writing class and, for once, I am actually feeling good about the work I've done. But then there's that little self-doubting troll that lives in us all. Mine tells me that I'm blogger number 9 MILLION and there's enough good writers out there to firmly set my place in utter oblivion. It seems completely impossible to find a foothold.

Who cares about my sad little women, my blundering, but devastatingly handsome men? Why does anyone care about any characters? I know, I know. Because a great writer can draw you in, chew you up and spit you out and you'll bow down and thank him (or her) for it. I'm awefully hungry, too. Then, again, so are they.

Other writers, however, are not my competition. You say that they are? No, no, my dear reader(s?). There is that big, scary marketing behemoth that only admits the famous, the completely devoid of self-worth and anyone who writes about them. Then there are the gatekeepers who used to be friends to writers, but have been seduced by the giant--literary agents. Most importantly, there is me. If I can corral my own fear and stagnancy and send it packing somewhere, maybe there is a kernel of hope. If not there definitely is a bottle of hooch and a bucket from the Colonel.