It is like a hunger that won’t be satiated. A thirst that won’t be quenched. It seems like I drink and drink only to feel more parched. You know that mosquito bite on the arch of your foot? The one you scratch until it’s raw, but still itches? It’s like that. It feels like the need is eating away inside me and leaving a growing hollowness, like a big dying tree.
What is it? Come on, you’re a writer, you know.
The continual need to be published. The overwhelming desire to hear, “Yes, I want to publish this.” The satisfying validation that your work is good enough for someone to invest time and money into so that the world can enjoy it too. The comfort that only comes when you know your material is being read by the all-important READER!
Apparently having all day to write, research, submit doesn’t sate that hunger. Perhaps I’m in a transition period and the empty inbox at the end of the day won’t always inspire the crushing thought “I didn’t accomplish anything today.” Perhaps it is the uncharacteristic four straight days of rain that has me gloomy. All I know is that when my husband left for work this morning I was overwhelmed by my lack of participation in the well-being of the family.
I believe in my writing. I do. I do. I don’t feel so strongly about my ability to sell it, but I keep trying. Who else out there understands that hollow spot inside that grows and shrinks with the content of the inbox or with a phone call? Who else assumes they need chocolate only to find you are still craving the elusive something afterward?
What does your craving feel like?