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.