Self pity is an exhausting exercise in introspection. But after two days of sniffling and whimpering and wondering whether I should find something else to do with my life– I’m mostly cured. Either that, or having my cousin move down here from Indiana (last night), hosting a birthday party for 24 kids (last night), helping a friend of a friend of a friend moving to the area search for schools and houses (past few days) or packing the five of us up for a 2.5 week trip to India (coming very soon), has kept me so busy that I haven’t had time to think much about it.
I am neither an optimist or a pessimist. I’m a realist. I don’t care whether the glass is half full or half empty– I only care about whether I should drink from it. So I will keep writing, simply because I don’t know how to stop. My body wakes up at 6 AM every morning. It doesn’t know how to do anything else but fix tea and sit down at the laptop to type. During the few quiet moments throughout the day, in between breaking up squabbles between the kids, cooking dinner, coloring, unloading the dishwasher– my legs steer themselves to the dining room table, where I plop down and move swiftly through a few sentences. Words are written before I even have a chance to think about it.
My husband came home from work that lousy night, wrapped his arms around me and said, “Maybe someday you’ll get a break.” And he’s right. Maybe… Someday… I will. But since there’s a good chance I won’t, I have to find a way to love writing and shake off the rejection.
I have to find a way to write my own happy ending.