Well, I’ve run out of old material to post here, and I’ve also run out of excuses for not writing new material. From here on in, it’s just laziness. I’m not even really so busy that I couldn’t pump out a few short stories a week. I just don’t.
I can speculate on the reasons why I’ve hit the drought – in fact, I know the reason, but I pretend to speculate on it so it doesn’t seem like I’m just not doing anything about it.
I haven’t received a rejection yet.
Oh sure, I’ve received plenty over the last year or so … but there’s still that one hanging out there.
O, sword that Damocles begged Dionysius to be delivered from … would that it be so, that I, having slid confidently into the Siege Perilous of the craft I feel I am meant to pursue as passion, could grasp thy hilt as the blade doth descend, and end this fear’s hold over me, and thus render it as weapon, perilous against the future.
Yeah, that was weird. I used to be obsessed with Greek mythology and Arthurian legend … but I guess we grow up. Now, under the gleam of the executioner’s axe, we revert back to our childhoods, and the fears find purchase from out of the dark of our souls.
My point is that I’m paralyzed with fear that after coming this far, my piece won’t be picked up by this magazine. I’ve put myself in the hot seat, and the verdict hangs over me like said blade. Every day I check my email a dozen times, just waiting to see that familiar name – the same name that has twice delivered news that I have made it past another round of approvals.
The wise thing to do would be to continue on with my writing, and put possible publication out of my mind for the time being. I should just write. If my first serious attempt at getting published has already made it this far, how much further can I go if I perfect my craft, using the partial success as a stone to hone my weapon on – a solid foundation with which to propel myself upwards from?
The waiting is unbearable.
And still, I wait. And still, it hangs over me.