It's been nearly a year since my last publication, but many, many rejections ranging from inconsequential to heartbreaking near-misses. I am beginning to think of writing as a bad hobby and a misuse of my time, as well as an addiction I can't seem to shake. I have written dozens of short pieces this year and none of them have been "as good as" the lightning which struck last year. The common denominator is me.

Privately, authors and editors tell me I'm fantastic. Some who are quite professional have gushed about my work on an as yet unposted podcast. Rejections occasionally are filled with praise. Yet, when it comes to finding homes for my work, I am turned away at every door. I wish I had the strength to stop myself from writing, but it's the only thing I know how to do, even though I expect I'll never be anything other than day job.