Perils of Work

I have sunk low.

I wrote today in the petrifying knowledge that I have not published in over a year, and that I may be no good.
I couldn't ignore it, like I could last week.
Another rejection email sat in my inbox, and I wanted to cry.
Scream and cry. Cry and scream.

I wrote for over an hour,
but I do not feel productive.
But I wrote.
But I wanted to write something golden.
But I sat in a cafe and wrote about clothes that I want.
But I am trying to make writing a practice.
But I am not commanded to like everything that ekes out of my pen.
But I wrote, and I wrote alone. And solitude is another practice I am trying to implement.

(I have to admit that Etsying is adding to my stress. I haven't made any sales recently, which is not the end of the world, but a little disheartening, since I have spent quite a lot of time lately spiffifying my shop. Also, stupidly, I ventured out into the Critiques forum again on Sunday, and received some advice that did not seem very lovingly intentioned. I have re-decided

- that I prefer to make fewer sales with greater personal connection
- that I do not plan to whip myself into a stressed out frenzy over my shop
- that I am not trying to appeal to anyone and everyone
- that I don't need people I don't especially respect to tell me how to create
- that the main reason I opened an Etsy shop was to share my work with people who will love to receive it)

That's the deal. And I will write. And I will publish again.

*It's only a polite, and not a truly sincere apology, but I'm sorry for all the resolve and manifestos of late. I want to begin again, to work and live better than before, and I have to keep saying it.*