I get down and depressed when things continually go down hill and life becomes a depository for piles of disappointments, busted plans, and reversals of fortune. I recently got rejected again by a publisher. They told me they didn’t want my work, and subtly hinted that they really didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to submit any more to them. And this, of course, was not one of the big five. They don’t even accept submissions from a goof as lowly as me who thinks he can write stories.
I take things like that with a grain of salt anyway. Twenty years ago I was told by a published writer that my writing was good enough to be published, and that all good writing eventually gets published. But I chose the coward’s path back then, continuing to invest my time in teaching hormonal and homicidal brats to read and write English in a poverty-pocket of South Texas where they barely pay teachers anything. I chose that cowardly path because it challenged my abilities and seemed a fulfilling life… and besides, I loved working with kids. Now, my life is winding down. I am retired on a full pension which is surprisingly good compared to what most teachers get nowadays, earned at a time before the Grinch became Emperor of Texas and declared the teaching of Science and making students think were acts of pure evil. My health is failing now, and getting published in the age of the internet is now a much more iffy sort of thing where hacks can make fortunes and good writers are ignored. Even small publishers aren’t interested in my work.
Yes, I tend to say “Gork” a lot because it doesn’t matter where I go from here. I have lived a good life. Now, as I dissolve in illness and pain and disappointment, I have no regrets. I fought the good fight and did good work. If the writing thing doesn’t do anything more for me than let me entertain myself in my last days, then that is good enough. I have one book published, and I mean to continue banging away at stories that I have always intend to tell, they will continue to exist after me, at least for a while, and will represent me well when I am gone.
So, I am bound to die, and fairly soon, and we are going to have the racist Orange King as our next President, so the economy will collapse into the pocketbooks of a handful of billionaires. Doom Looms… a phrase I borrowed from a Walt Kelly strip that cut to the heart of the matter long ago. While we live, we are all together as passengers on Spaceship Earth, and we are the only enemy available to contend with. So, instead of being bummed out about bad fortune, I choose to count my blessings and seriously contemplate what I can do to make things better… whether it is in a big way, or just a little bitty one.