Not writing but drowning...

One of my favourite poets is called Stevie Smith and she wrote a poem called 'Not waving but drowning,' which is basically about people misreading signals. (My most favourite poem by Stevie is the very funny 'The Jungle Husband' but is totally irrelevant to this blog unless a hippo happens to charge through at some point). 'Not waving but drowning' tells of someone in the sea waving for help because they are drowning. People on the shore wave back because they are thinking (stupidly, as it turns out) that the person is waving and saying 'Coo-eee! Look at me! I'm having a lovely time out here swimming in the sea.'

I am not writing but drowning...

I counted my rejection slips yesterday. There are 22. Okay, so it's not the 197 that I'd imagined in my overactive mind, but it's enough to make me feel marginally depressed. 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' has ground to a halt after its flying start. I've received wise words of encouragement from my writer pal Vera over at Labartere vis a vis what to do about this and I am trying to act on those words by distracting myself with other writing. Yesterday, for example, I wrote a 2,000 word essay comparing Lady Macbeth and Cleopatra's relationships with their respective partners. Today, I am contemplating writing a musical.

You see how bad it has become??

And to compound my feelings of literary drowning, Andy and I are off to the London Book Fayre on Saturday for a masterclass on how to get published.

I booked the ticket about 3 months ago when I was in a writing flourish and feeling good about being a writer and not anticipating this period of disillusionment when I am thinking I am a useless article and need to get a proper job earning proper money and maybe even go back to teaching. Perhaps the masterclass has come at the right time, I hear you shout. It will inspire you and get you back on track. This is true. I hadn't thought of that. Well, obviously I did, because I just wrote it, but the thought hadn't occured to me until a couple of seconds ago.

But because I am feeling miserable I think the experience will consist of listening to a bunch of smug people who got a publisher and a three book deal at their first attempt and then being descended on by a bunch of salesmen from the world of self-publishing who will try to sell their self-publishing packages to us lesser writers being roundly rejected by standard publishers. (I mention my suspicions of the self-publishing companies because when the fayre tickets arrived they were accompanied by many leaflets offering the services of self-publishing companies.)

Hey ho, that's how it goes...am I sounding bitter and pathetic? Sour, and like my face needs a good slap? Oh, it'll be okay. Things usually are. I'll schedule myself another hour or two of feeling miserable, then count my blessings, give myself a good slap and read 'The Jungle Husband.' At least my poet of choice today is Stevie Smith.

It's when I start reading Sylvia Plath I might have to start worrying...