But that’s okay.
Part of me simply says what I entered didn’t tickle their brains enough for whatever reason. I refuse to believe my writing is so crappy that their sole reason for dumping my entries is for their craptacular level of stupidiousness. I have to find the right venue, the right eyes to read what I write, before I write myself off completely as a writer and go into things better suited for my talents, such as toothpick repair.
Come on. Tell me this or this is completely terrible. (Really. Tell me. I need some unbiased opinions on my writing. My wife is my best editor, but she's taking masters classes and is out of the picture now. Anybody? Hellooooooo?) Maybe they just didn’t like excerpts. Maybe they’re all toffee-nosed over at the Lit Blitz. No matter. I will continue writing.
Skip to 3:07 or thereabouts, for Colin's Sally Field mockery.
I simply don’t think I’m artsy or pretentious enough. My writing does not have that soupcon of apricot and toast and mind-blowingly-bad poet voiceyness these competitions look for. Sorry, folks, I just don’t write that way. I write like me. And, I suppose if the me I write like writes badly, then I will go proudly forward, writing badly, until I get to the point I write something badly enough it’ll get published.
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