I was told that my chances of getting published are slim to none.
I was urged to have a backup plan.
Everyone is entitled to an opinion.
I don’t have a journalism degree.
The only professional who has ever told me that my writing was any good was my Seventh grade tutor, and really, she was being paid by my parents.
I have not been paid for my writing; have not made five cents in this endeavor.
It’s not about the money, friend.
It’s about passion. It’s about love. It’s about the need to express, so that I don’t go mad.
Mad as in crazy.
I have enough mad as in mad. Oh, you made me mad as in mad. It’s like that button has your name on it. It’s reserved especially for you.
Which makes me wonder.
I can’t control you or what you think or your lack of vision. I can’t make you see what I see.
I can only control how I react when that button gets pushed.
And I don’t like how I felt inside and how the blood under my skin started to boil and my anger at your belittment seethed. It felt like a simultaneous punch to the heart and gut and my writer’s spirit will not allow that kind of repugnancy and so my mouth flew open and the words spit themselves out.
Yes, it’s my protection. No, it isn’t right.
This is a character flaw. It’s why I have to write.
God can’t help me. Therapy can’t change me. My soul needs to understand how your mean cannot affect me.
I googled Buddhism and came across this.
It seems to encompass so many of the things that I need and it very well might be the path that leads to my enlightenment.
Since life is a journey and Rome wasn’t built in a day, this day I’ll focus on a moving image on constant rotation in my house as a child. Barbra Streisand’s Funny Girl spoke to me then as she does now.
Don’t tell me not to fly, I’ve simply got to. If someone takes a spill it’s me and not you. Who told you your allowed to rain on my parade!