angry writer walking

Now that I’ve waxed all sweet and poetic about my nighttime walks with Jack, I’ll tell you the not-so-pretty flip side.

Without an iPod or something blathering in my ears, my mind is free to gnaw on things and most of the time, those are not good things. Sadly, when I let my mind wander at will, it invariably heads straight for the things that piss me off me and once there, hunkers down.

Poor Jack—he tends to get slow and stubborn at the end of the walk, just as I’m reaching a frenzy of fury at the world. I try to be sympathetic and slow down, but then he slows down, lagging far behind me, always keeping tension on the leash that infuriates me. I invariably end up yanking and scolding and cussing. Tom insists Jack gets plodding because of the heat but I don’t think so. If that were the case, then he’d keep up when I slow down to a crawl. No, I think it’s some kind of weird power struggle. Other dogs pull on the leash ahead. My cockamamie critter does the opposite.

Grrr.

I’m struggling with foul temper this week. Perhaps it’s the onset of summer. It’s hot hot hot here and I’m not yet acclimated.

During last night’s walk I got all churned up about work. While I have enough to keep me busy, the stuff I care about most just isn’t working out. I’m thinking very seriously about retiring my travel column because it’s just not selling enough to make it worthwhile. Editors tell me they love to read it when it arrives (via my syndicate), but they don’t buy it and give their readers the same pleasure. The two papers that theoretically run it have not in months. I get lots of response from readers when the column runs—shouldn’t that count for something?

Essays in general are a heartbreak. Recently, an editor told me something I’d submitted is “flat.” That is absolutely gnawing a hole through my brain. A writer friend who helped me fine-tune the essay vehemently disagrees. I don’t know who to believe or what to do. It’s all so subjective and discouraging and there are no answers to any of my questions. (If I were walking Jack right now, I’d be striding at an angry pace of 10 miles an hour and he’d be dragging at the end of full length of the leash and my arm, which would be straight back behind me.)

I will soon have something in a major national publication—but I didn’t get paid for it. You know—budgets and staff cuts and blablabla, the editor told me. Yeah, I know, but it makes me angry anyway.

I believe I’m good at what I do, readers respond to what I write, but the gatekeepers to the public don’t help.

I’m an angry writer. I’m angry at my editors and angry at the industry and angry at myself and COME ON JACK! HURRY UP! YOU’RE DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY!