CARpe Diem

I hate buying cars.  I like having cars, but I’ve purchased enough of them from dealerships that my blood pressure increases and my heart jumps at the mere thought of dealing with a salesperson, finance director, and their impossible-to-please supervisors.

I’m not exactly an assertive person.  When faced with conflict, I tend to back down, and that’s exactly why I’m bothered by car dealerships.  I know it’s in my nature to allow myself to be manipulated, which fits nicely with their training to control the transaction.

Not this time.  I can always walk off the lot if I’m not happy.

Losing Momentum

I apologize in advance.

I don’t want to say what’s on my mind, because it sounds weak, frail, and childish, so this post will be intentionally vague, a roundabout way of publicly addressing my need to write while acknowledging my need for privacy.

That’s probably maddening to read, and I bet I just lost half of you, less than halfway through the post.

I’m questioning my dream of writing right now, the fiction dream.  The only fiction I’ve published was in my college literary magazine nearly a quarter century ago.

The rub:  I’m still afraid of submitting fiction to editors.