The Anxious Writer

I’ve just done something I’ve never done before.  Now my hands are all cold and shaky, and I need to pee.

This is what happens when I’m anxious.  I turn into a popsicle, and my bladder shrinks. Yes, it’s an extreme reaction, I know, but I imagine it’s a common one, albeit reserved for life-changing situations.  Y’know, exam results or pregnancy tests. Maybe even sports bets.

But I didn’t do any of those things.  Nope.  I just sent off a short story for publication, and the suspense will all but kill me.

I’ve decided that this must be what I do from now on: write and (attempt to) sell short stories while working on novels.  Especially while I live in this town… this dried up old town that deserves a story written about it and all the weirdness within.  (I’m working on it; be patient.)

So, is there any chance that I can earn a small, but decent living this way?  I have no idea, but I’m seeking an answer with my warm throw around my shoulders and wool socks on my feet.

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– sld

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