Just a few short days after writing my perky cheerleading post, I find myself feeling deflated, like the balloon we got in the hospital when our daughter was born that managed to just barely stay afloat for 8 weeks (it was like the little balloon that could, until it couldn’t). True, I am currently experimenting to see just how many ends a candle has to burn and if one more person asks me if my six-month-old is sleeping through the night, I will cackle so hard and seem so off-balance you might mistake me for an evil carnie (this kid is heavy and wants to be held all the time and I am pretty sure I not only look like the bearded lady, but a hunchback, too). I have an ever-nearing work deadline, a bathtub that has leaked from the second story in the garage and sprouted mold, and out of three wonderful nanny choices, I think I may have just unwittingly hired someone pregnant, which means I have to do this shit all over again. Did I mention my daughter now has horrible stranger and separation anxiety. And we have a new nanny. Oh, and I have to get a root canal. I’m like Sally Field’s character in Soap – a bad news buffet. But, that is not what’s got me down (my Pollyanna skills are enviable most days). My deflation can be traced back to my critique group last night.
I submitted a revised draft of my short story. It’s close, but it’s not there. The end is too rushed. I just so wanted it to be done. But, it’s going to require more baking. And when I mentioned bringing it again next time, I am pretty sure I heard an audible groan. A groan?!? Really? Then please don’t tell me it’s great, just needs a little more to be fantastic. Tell me it blows. Or don’t groan. So, I joined the Insecure Writers’ Support Group and am seeking a cheerleader or two of my own. And a stiff drink and a nap.