I had such a fun weekend–it feels churlish to complain just because it’s over. Al and I spent the entire weekend together, watching the rain pour down on Friday while eating take out pizza from our favorite place, going to the movies and out to dinner Saturday, puttering around the house and eating super-healthy Sunday.
Hmmm. Not sure why food is such a major issue in my weekend memories.
Yesterday was Mike and Jessica’s first anniversary. They’re in Hawaii where they did a triathalon together. It’s nice to think of them, doing things they love and being so in love with each other and together in a beautiful place under last night’s full moon.
Plus I get to see them in August when they come to visit, and then Al and I are going to Texas to see Tim and Alicia in September. So, I have lots to be thankful for.
Then why exactly do I feel all mopey? Probably the latest agent rejection. It came Friday and I ignored it, or tried to, all weekend, but today I had to deal. Confidence shot to hell. Really, what makes me think I can even write novels? Especially novels anyone is interested in reading.
Sometime I think I’d be better off just sticking to reading them. Just finished Jennifer Weiner’s Fly Away Home, Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad, and am in the midst of The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman. Three really different but all lovely in their own way novels, and right in a row!
And then there’s the season premiere of Mad Men I taped last night…
Really, my life would be so much simplier, and I’m just guessing here, maybe even happier, if I didn’t try to write. Or if I just wrote and didn’t try to get published. That’s the tough part. Why am I still putting myself through it?
Then, after going through the usual litany of woe, I saw the Dalai Lama’s post on FB today where he said a mind full of negative thoughts is much weaker when you need to be strong. You can’t withstand the struggles as easily when you’re weighed down by negative thoughts. And then I remembered that I am not my thoughts, and I don’t need to carry them around.
It’s a never-ending process, though, to keep riding the waves of emotion, to not let riptides of negativity pull me too far off course, to keep coming back to this life and what I am doing with it. And maybe it isn’t always going to be writing. And that’s okay, too.