Jealousy. That little fire-spitting demon curled up warm and sharp in a corner of the brain. I try to keep it in a cage–a pretty one so it won’t get restless too quickly–but it knows how to pick the lock. Free, it scampers around and chews its way through the more sensible emotions. And it hurts!
Anyway, I listen to interviews with other writers and pick up books at the bookstore and glance at the covers of writing magazines and I think–why doesn’t anybody like me? Which is just plain stupid. Hey, I’m smart enough, I’m good enough, and gosh darn it, I like me. (Thanks to the good ol’ SNL!) I’m happiest about my writing when I’m in my car. Who knows why. But if I’ve got the windows rolled down and the radio turned up, I speed along thinking about something I wrote or will write and I’m filled with so much happiness that I must look like a fool smiling to myself. I did that once while walking down the street. So plesaed with a plot twist, that a woman passed me on the sidewalk and she said, “Well, somebody’s having a good day.” I laughed and blushed and kept on walking. What could I say–my heroine’s just met a smooth-talking lothario and I can’t wait to see what happens next!
But then I stop moving and sit at my desk and I’m certain that everyone else is smarter and more talented and surely they don’t want to invite me to the party. And why should I go when I don’t have anything decent to wear.
If only it weren’t so hard to get that little demon back in its cage. Maybe I should go for a drive.