I should probably admit it to myself. It is dreadful, tho. It is like admitting defeat in a lifelong quest, it is like persuing the Holy Grail, seeing it lying a few feet away, and saying to yourself "Nah, I'd rather sell magazine subscriptions".
I have seen myself, since my first and only story sale, as a writer. That is, writing is what I do to pretend I am useful (?) while I am being a mystic animist nutball. I might as well admit to myself that instead of a seldom published writer, I am, in fact, a never-published poet. Since it all seems so unimportant next to the other things I do, I suppose it should be relatively painless. I will continue to try to finish the three novels and several shorts I am working on, and I will still write poetry, but I am slowly starting to realize that my hope of ever attaining any measure of commercial success is rapidly fading. Since that is among the least of the reasons I write, I guess I am okay with this, but it is a difficult awakening. Ugh.
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