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Jan. 28, 2005 I went to work today with the idea that I would not let our illustrious administrative leaders bother me with their obvious lack of understanding of how difficult it is to run an agency without support staff. I failed. I hate it when that happens. I promise myself I would walk away from my job at four o’clock everyday and erase my bosses’ ignorance from my mind. Damn, it just didn’t happen. It never does. You see my real life job is that of a social worker. I’m supposed to be helping people less fortunate to find their way through this confusing maize called the world. It’s a difficult job because…well, I’m not sure I understand this confusing world of ours. I am a misplaced person you see. I don’t belong on a 9 to 5 job or an 8 to 4 job. I belong on the staff of some dirt-poor magazine staff, or ezine staff. I should be editing somebody’s writing, maybe helping someone write a story. I don’t belong out there in that cruel world of life. Trouble is, I have to make a living. What’s with that? I’ve written four books, a number of short stories, and several short articles, all to no avail. I’ve got a website that bangs out 1 or 2 visitors a day, that’s on a good day. On a bad day I visit my own site just so I can see my counter numbers rise. Isn’t that just a fix? Here’s my luck. I wrote a good book, I think, called “Talbert’s Plunge.” It was going to be published by an epublisher in Britain, but they went out of business. An American publisher praised “Talbert’s Plunge”; she promised me the world (I even signed a contract) two years ago and she folded. Now what? I’m stuck with a dead contract and a publisher lost in space somewhere.
I have sent a number of stories to
publishers and haven’t heard from them for
weeks. I have written articles and submitted
them; they, too, have dropped off the face of
the earth. Not to worry. I am certain that my
stories will become famous posthumously. All
good writers are better after they’re dead. I’m
just not going to do a “Hemmingway” or
a “Plath.” It’s just not me. Heck, I tried to
kill myself twelve years ago and screwed that
up. I took just enough meds and drank enough
Jack Daniels to make me pass out on a rock next
to the Eel River. I woke up the next day with
pneumonia. Not only was I still alive, but also
I owed the hospital thousands.
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