Oh, lord, people. This afternoon, I had an anxiety… not attack… but fit, I guess, about the manuscript. About how it sucks, about how I can’t send it out, about how, if I do send it out, I am a fraud because I have nothing lined up next. How they’ll like it, but they won’t like me. And on and on.
It’s fine. I’ve talked myself down.
But lord almighty, I’m starting to understand why writers drink.
I mean, I applied for college. I applied for grad school (two years in a row!). I’ve applied for jobs. I’ve sent my little boat of awesomeness out into the world before. But damn.
I need to get my shit in order and just start submitting. If I don’t, I’m going to break out in worse hives.
This afternoon, I had myself convinced I have hookworms. Then I looked up hookworms on the internet and decided that I don’t.
Ha ha ha. I can always tell when I’m especially anxious, my posts get all disjointed.
But I did buy betsyphillips.net. (Someone owns betsyphillips.com.) So, I guess some practical part of me thinks I may need it.
And I do have this weird itchy spot on my arm that is shaped like a question mark. Now that I’m convinced it’s not a hookworm, the reason I’m convinced that it’s some kind of contact dermatitus is that I’m developing a mirror image rash across the elbow from it, which would suggest that I got into something, folded my arm up and it got in both spots.
Or that it’s a sign from the Universe. ?
? is my message from the Universe? God damn it, that’s just like the Universe to be so ambiguous. And itchy.