The powers that be decided it would be funny to give me a cold on the two days I had off from work. It actually started on Sunday evening. Yesterday, I ignored my symptoms as best I could because had a writing deadline I was attempting to meet. As soon as I hit "send," I started the water going for the TheraFlu, drank it and then crashed.
I have recently started working with a writing mentor, who is helping me get out of my negativity. I made an agreement with him that I would get stories done, submit them and accept the consequences. I said, "I HAVE to." Ie, this is what you have to go through if you choose to be a writer.
I just wish I didn't feel yesterday that it was all crap. I told my mentor I felt okay with the story on Sunday night, then woke up Monday morning and without looking at it again just knew it was horrible.
Still, I plugged away. I got a huge amount of writing done at Panera Bread, in a shopping center where there's also a Barnes & Noble. I walked over to the Barnes & Noble to look up two particular erotic short story anthologies. I didn't find those anthologies, but saw Rachel Kramer Bussell's spanking collection, Bottoms Up.
I know a woman whose story was published in that anthology. I THOUGHT I'd read it; it turns out that I hadn't. Her name is Zille Defeu, she's a blogger and she was the organizer of the recent San Francisco Corporal Punishment party. At the Barnes & Noble I flipped to her story. Big mistake -- it was terrific. I'm thinking, shit, there's no way I'd ever get published again if THIS is my competition. I did say, "again." I've already been published, had a short story published by Scarlett Hill and another story appeared in Prometheus, TES's magazine.
Rad says I'm my own worst critic. Oh, give it time ... if I actually keep submitting stories, there will be others.