I just cannot shake this summer’s grand funk. I’ve hung out with friends. I’ve sat at home alone reading. I’ve been on trips. I’ve not been on trips. I listened to music I was excited about. I sat around in silence. I wrote some things I’m pleased with. I’m revising some things I’m pleased with.
I sit on the couch making jokes with the Butcher. I sit in coffee shops with S.
And I just can’t find anything that soothes my soul.
I was saying last night on Twitter that I envy the authors who write the grand, flaming, fuck-yous to editors. Let me be clear. This is never a good practice. There’s not a single instance in which your angry letter is going to get anyone to reconsider publishing you.
But man, how awesome it must be to have that kind of confidence–to know your shit is amazing and anyone who doesn’t see it is an idiot.
I get rejected and I immediately assume that I suck as a writer and everyone who says otherwise is just being kind. Which is its own kind of insulting problematic script, don’t get me wrong. But I think it must be nice to feel so sure of yourself that, when things don’t go your way, you know it’s the other person who’s being a fool.
Tiny Cat Pants 
I, as well as many others, “know your shit is amazing and anyone who doesn’t see it is an idiot,” madam.
Feel free to write those grand flaming fuck-you letters and send them to me, if you need an outlet. I’m an editor; I can take it, and the satisfaction you’ll get in venting will be magnificent for both your physical and writerly health. You can whip out every epithet and insult ever employed and challenge yourself to combine them like Shakespeare.
I suspect those letters will be just as enjoyable to read as the other works you produce.
BTW, Mercury was in retrograde in June and July, and Uranus went into retrograde in late July. I suspect that may be why a number of us just can’t … get … situated … right.
(Feel free to imagine all of us circling, and lying down on the couch, and wriggling around, and getting back up, and circling, and lying back down, and wriggling around, and getting back up, and circling, like fretful dogs. That’s been me, the 6-foot Mrs. Wigglebottom, all summer.)