Writer's Angst

Well, I've been gone, okay?  My beloved and I left the little angel with my parents and whisked ourselves away to a fabulous ski vacation in lovely Breckenridge, Colorado. Wednesday through Sunday. It was the longest I have been away from the little angel since her birth, and I am happy to report I only wept as though my heart were breaking on two nights.  See?  I am still capable of independence.

Yesterday I returned to the furor of Corporate America to find my co-workers still suicidal and upper management still insane.  We heard some horrible news, and I left feeling more than a bit postal.  Then I talked to my friend who is going through some personal problems and whose birthday I also forgot on the worst day of her life.  I am a champ, aren't I?

This morning, I talked to my also-writer sister, whose will-I-ever-write-again breakdown I seem to have missed on Sunday, the day before my friend's missed birthday.  She said she needed a pep talk.  Now, my sister has been published in a major literary journal, compared to my small-peanuts local presses.  She actually has literary agents and equally snooty types calling her every few months or so to see if she has anything new.  Imagine that, someone calling you to see if you have something new.  No, I can't imagine it.  As you can tell, I am uber-sympathetic to her cause. 

No, seriously, though, I do understand.  I sat there in Breckenridge, waiting for the shuttle that was to contain three drunken Australian women who have traveled the world more extensively in the past month than I have in my life, and I worked on my latest short story.  I got four pages, and I felt like a rock star because there was one sentence in there that was almost okay.   Why do I do it?  I ask myself this question all the time.  The chances of me getting published in any real way are almost as bad as the chance of W. leaving a legacy.  My wit, unfortunately, is useful mainly as a corporate defense mechanism, one that keeps me safeguarded from getting sued when I want to mash the head of the IT department.  It protects me, much like being cute protects a little puppy left in the street.  People want to hurt me less when I crack a joke, even when it is at their expense.

You didn't ask for this, did you?  You logged on to read about my ski trip, not my sister's and my writerly naval gazing!  Aha!  You never know what you'll get.