Maybe it works the other way too.
It is Wednesday the 19th. My hours are earlier and more scattered and alone and fighting with each other. This is only the second story of five, and that first one got rewritten at least three or four times.
Not good enough. not good enough. not good enough.
oh yeah. not good enough.
He sent me forty-seven pages of genius, a study of a plan in a place where huge movement happens. It was beautiful and detailed and I even said to my editor, I just want to put chunks of what he said in there.
No. I'm serious. How do I follow that?
Again she laughed at me because she is awesome and throwing work my way.
Crazy. How lucky I am to have the friends I do. I told her she could always fire me if she needed to. Every time I turn something in I think.
Well, that's it. I'm not a writer anymore.
I turned in the Delta Bluff Scenic Byway, Desoto July article yesterday. I am not a writer. Thank you for reading three years of complete garbage while someone, namely me, attempted to put words together to form coherent sentences and take away some weird meaning. You are incredibly patient and kind and generous and I'm sure there is a medal in heaven for what you did.
|You saw the evidence of me playing in the rain instead of sitting in a desk chair until the story was done.|
I talk to a friend.
Talk about the next article.
She says, I cried when I saw the brick streets.
Now I have to go.
Of course I have to see.
Might as well try to write about it, I guess.
Plus. I have something to prove to nobody but myself.
I am good enough. I am good enough to write about this.
Today I am grateful for a consistent and persistent goal, for the knowledge I will always find evidence in the case I am pleading.
and maybe, just maybe, if it's good enough we're looking for then it's simple. of course, you and me, we're good enough. but better than could definitely cause some problems.