Swirling head

A picture of a writer rejected:

I am coming down to the sad, quiet weeping of the the reality of being rejected as a writer, the sadness swirling inside the soul inside the place where the pleasant solar plexus should radiate the joy of life. Oscillating the choppy waters of feeling bad and how to better respond, but I don’t. My would-be books are on the backburner now–I will not touch them–they are not good enough as the rejection has shown. No, not at all. I will not do them. In the head space, a nagging thought about to interrupt the comfortability of giving up. I shouldn’t submit again, but maybe I will. Ha. I don’t feel like it…

In months if not weeks, maybe days, I will be back, when the moment arises.

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