ok, well, i think i'm in one of my moods. damn moods!

i called the othopedic yesterday and she was real nice. course i have to come up with at least $88 for the office visit(she said since I was "selfpay" that's probably all he'd charge) and then if they do x-rays i can pay that out. man, must be nice to make $88 dollars for fifteen minutes of work.

well, i've come to the realization that i'm not a good writer. yep, i said it. well, let me amend that a tad, i am a good writer, just not a great one. i'll never see my stuff in the quality of magazines i want. oh now, don't tsk me. i love to write and probably always will, but while my ideas are always pretty good, i lack something in the delivery. i don't have a novel in me, i don't have even a novella in me. i can barely crank out 1000 words.

contrary to the title of this entry, there was no real lightbulb moment. instead the light has been struggling to come on. like a scene from a horror flick where the light surges, blinks endlessly and finally goes black. only mine did the opposite until the sickly yellow light was glaring down on me in a bright wash of truth.

it's ok, because those who can't become editors. i mean, is it better for me to constantly delude myself into thinking i can, or is it best for me just to finally admit that i can't? i've been struggling with this for so long. i think it's best i just concede and face the ugly painful truth.

please don't tell me the stephen king story again, about his walls being plastered with rejection slips. i saw his biography the other day and those rejections came when he was a teenager. by the time he was in college, he was making small change selling stories and had the good fortune of befriending an editor at doubleday.

like i said, i won't quit writing, just as i can't quit breathing. but i know that it will be only for me and my friends(who are nice enough to tell me how good it is).

too bad i can't afford prozac. damn moods!