In the last two months, I’ve gone through a submitting frenzy. I’ve got more pieces of writing – fiction, personal essays, and poetry – out in the hands of editors than I’ve ever had at one time before.
I’m preparing myself for a full slate of eventual rejections. I believe in my writing, I know I’m saying something here and there, but I don’t have clarity on how good it is, how objectively good it is. It’s just out there. And I’m not sure that there is an objective definition of good anyway.
It doesn’t matter. I’m glad I sent it out. It’s an effort in hope, to say – no, I haven’t given up yet. I’m still here, scribbling my scribbles, as I’ve always done. I’m still me.
There’s so much wrong in the world. So much to be scared about. I sit in my little writing studio, and write. I walk through my life, grateful still, even as I worry. Even as I worry.
The Wandering Introvert 