The more birthdays I have, the less I find I enjoy them. All they are is a reminder of another year gone with little to show for it.
Alright, fine, I've written a lot of books. However, despite three years of trying, I haven't been able to traditionally publish any of them. I might just have exhausted the supply of agents and acquisition editors in North America for The Great Man series.
No one wants my stuff.
That raises the issue of quality. If none of the professionals want my books, then it's because they aren't good enough. If they're not good enough for them, I probably shouldn't self-publish them or I'll give myself a reputation for publishing rubbish.
I don't want that reputation.
Yet, I really want this story to be out there. More than anything, I want it to be widely read and loved.
But if it's crap, it's not going to be.
And so I'm sitting on it, wondering what the hell to do with it all.
I was also, according to the plan I made quite late in life, supposed to have completed a Masters degree and be knee deep in my doctorate by now.
What the hell happened to that? Oh yeah, funding. Who ever thought of money anyway? What bastards!
This is what birthdays make me think of - a whole lotta treading water and hopes that get dashed. A whole lotta 'it's just not good enough.' Too many years chasing the impossible.
I never used to dislike birthdays. They used to be fun and full of parties and I never once thought of all the things I'd hope to do by now and haven't managed to. What's with that?
Am I the only one who reflects on everything that I was supposed to have done by now?
Anyway, sorry to bring you all down on a Monday (like you needed my help). I just realised that I forgot to post Saturday's Forgotten English so, lucky you, you get two for one today.
A small portion left by way of good manners. In some parts of the North it is the custom for the village tailor to work at his customer's house, and to partake of the hospitality of the family board. On these occasions the best fare is invariably provided; at least such was the case when I was a boy; and the tailor to shew that he has had enough, generally leaves a little on his plate, which is called tailor's mense . . . [From] mense, decency, propriety of conduct, good manners, kindness, hospitality.
- John Brockett's Glossary of North Country Words, 1825
An easy jog - such as farmers' wives carry their eggs to the market.
- William Carr's Dialect of Craven, 1828