OK. So - it's been a new new moon; so that Prosperity Check experiment thing is over. Guess what, (surprise) I didn't get $1000 from selling short stories. In fact, I got my usual quota a rejections. So much for Prosperity Checks. Ha. I laugh disdainfully at your greedy superstition from my impoverished, artistically exalted, moral high-ground.
And the rest of this post is probably going to be a long whiny post. I'm having a bout of ennui and existential angst. Singing "The Ladies who Lunch" doesn't seem to help. Writing sad-high-school-thespian-girl haiku doesn't help. Listening to high-drama, dance tunes in a minor key with ambiguous lyrics (or Aqua) on Pandora seems to help a little.... It's messing up my writing, because I look at the stacks of manuscripts and the blank computer screens and even the finished manuscripts and I ask myself "Why Bother."
Yes, we all have stories to tell, our stories, blah blah blah... I feel like Kepler from Carl Sagan's Cosmos: "He couldn't make it work, and he couldn't leave it alone." (Insert scene of Kepler leaning back wearily from his intricate model of the solar system with planets and Platonic solids, putting his hands to his eyes, leaning back more, whapping the model, and returning his hands to his eyes)
And then I look around at the rest of my life.
Which probably explains the anxiety dreams about last-minute discoveries that I'm failing college chemistry.
I think the typical thing to do is to run away to Monaco, take a lover, or sign up for the new studies on hallucinogens. Which, to quote Judith Viorst, "seem rather impracticable."
(bing!) And our time is over. See you next week.