My Life as a Pincushion – both literally and metaphorically.
I just got back from the big-city blood lab, (the only one in the state that does the tests I needed) where I was led to the hemophilia lab (!!) and then had a series of tests, including a blood draw with the biggest syringe I have ever seen (about the size of one of those orange juice glasses, maybe bigger) and some razor-blade cut tests that will scar up to look exactly like I’m some kind of blade-toting self-mutilation person. I should have at least asked to have them done in some kind of meaningful formation, like a star or my initials. I have been getting blood tests at the rate of once or twice a week since early January. I don’t even wince at the big needles now.
At the same time as my adventure through the series of doctor appointments over the last few weeks, I have been growing increasingly discouraged with the process of sending out manuscripts and receiving no news/no good news back. My mailbox has been distressingly empty of any kind of poetry news and I just don’t have the energy to send out my ms these days. I like the book and I think it deserves to be published (no arrogance there. Well, I blame my low platelet count for any ravings) but I just don’t feel like dealing with any more rejection. Besides the results of book contests, I am also waiting to hear on about 84 individual poems at this time.
Anyway, I know all writers go through times of discouragement and that health-wise I haven’t been on a joyride since the surgery and that probably adds to any regular garden-variety writerly depression. It’s easy for me to make money writing – I have more freelance work than I can handle so maybe I should stay away from poetry for a while, do the easy stuff, then get back to it when I am not seeing the world “through a glass darkly” as they say. Sorry to write such a downer post. I promise to be more upbeat next time. I guess I’m in more of a supervillain phase than a superhero phase (see post below re: supervillains.)