The Great Unsold

As a proud grocery-cart Catholic (I pick and choose what I like from that religion, and leave behind what’s rotten and expired), I decided to give up Facebook for Lent. So I haven’t connected with readers much the last month or so, nor with friends on my super secret personal Facebook page. It’s freed up a lot of time for me, which I’ve then used for my hobbies (stressing out and crying). Not really. Maybe. One panic attack in that time, and it didn’t kill me, just like all the previous ones in the last year did not kill me. Both Nietzsche and Kelly Clarkson are wrong, though, because they didn’t make me stronger. I’m the same person. Alive and pulsing like a larva.


Trying to assess where this so-called career is taking me, or where I’ve taken it. I’m not sure there is a future for people like me, writers who write what is not popular and that nobody wants and doesn’t sell. I know that is hard to believe. I’m not a marketing genius—or any kind, really—so self-publishing is not the path for me, and never was. I make my living at another career that is not really worth talking about.

Will there be other writing? Soon, sometime, some day. Maybe only here. Maybe only on my super secret personal Facebook page, once Lent is over. Maybe only screeds written on the back of cocktail napkins. Who can predict? The future is mysterious and unknowable.