No, I'm not Hemingway. I would never query drunk, but Ambien may not be totally off the table. Preparing to face rejection stinks and, I'm not god at sugar-coating stuff for myself. I know that sending my work out is my way of telling the Universe to pee on me. I hope it doesn't happen, but the odds are against me with all the small selective lists I want to be a part of.
Pre-Ambien, I prepared a full manuscript for mailing using one of those pre-printed envelopes from USPS. I don't think the mailer is hardcore enough for the manuscript. How did people do this in the old days? That's a butt load of paper! I don't even write the really long stuff. My husband guessed that Stephen King sends his manuscripts by mule train. Ugh. I hate logistics. Where's Tinkerbell when I really need her?
I've also been struggling with this general feeling of innui all afternoon. I don't feel like I'm valued enough for more talents wherever I'm working, and they often value work performed on a strict schedule. I hate strict schedules. Being a full time writer would be perfect, but I'm afraid I'm never going to make it there. Does that mean I'm doomed to fail at being a competent rat in the maze and a good writer?