Diary of a Struggling Writer

By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski

I quit. I am tired of busting my hump writing only to make pennies for all my hard work. The business of writing stinks, getting a book published is like fifth grade math and eleventh grade algebra all over again. Or worse it’s like all four years of high school, which was one big hormonal, pimple-y, depressing mess.

Writing: the natural high of freedom of expression, spilling my soul out my fingertips, losing myself as I shift from one make believe person to another, that’s what it’s suppose to be about, not all the other crap that goes along with it. The editors that dissect my work, the publishers that are “too busy” to send anything more but a lousy, half-hearted attempt of a form letter telling me my piece doesn’t “fit their needs right now” when really what they are probably thinking is “what a load of garbage.”

Rejection, after rejection after rejection….

Then the other book that I finally found a publisher for just spit it out like so many men spit on sidewalks and walk right past. So I am left to stumble about trying to get people to even notice my story that I worked my ass off to create. I sit at book signings and promotional deals smiling a crooked, plastered on, painful smile knowing full well I write because I hate being around people but here I am stuck sucking up to people just to get my work read.

So I am literally walking away. Who needs the headaches after all? The three articles I was working on, the column that’s due next week and editing the first draft of my next book – forget it. I’m going to grab my fishing rod, pack a bag with jelly donuts, baby carrots and bottled water and head off to some lake somewhere to battle it out with some trout, bass or whatever, and contemplate what the heck I am going to do with my life.

(Pause)

(Breath)

(Reflect)

What would I be if not for my writing?

(Pause)

(Breath)

(Reflect)

No spark, no excitement, no color.

No dancing, no brightness, no friend when I’m feeling lonely or need to vent.


Okay, where was I?

Third chapter twenty-first page…
She burst into the room, the door hitting the wall with a loud smack. Her foot caught on the corner of the Oriental rug and she stumbled, arms outstretched, grabbed the dresser. Her hands smarted. “Here I am!” She announced.