365 days of being a writer: day 51

I started today off late, in bed, as my hours have been cut at work and they didn't need me.

Did I use my time wisely? Not really. I finished a great piece of fiction, Parasites Like Us, knit a few rows and did a mountain of laundry.

Today, Orion magazine kindly rejected the Starlings essay. It was my first personalized rejection note. The editor noted that it was "a good piece of writing" but that it was too report-y for their pages. She mentioned that some of the editors thought maybe The Smithsonian would be a better home for it. TS doesn't take manuscripts, only queries, so I have to work up the nerve and do a couple of drafts of that note before trying that.

All I did toward being a writer today was reach out to an editor who may have some more unpaid opportunities for me. I sent a list of what I could/would be able to write about. But I don't even want to write, right now.

The depression that had been weighing down on me before the trip never went away, I just had other things to think about in NYC. Now it is back with a pressing, urgent quality. I don't want to be near to or talk to anyone at all, I don't even want my cat near me. It takes every force of will to have a conversation. It's not you, it's me. I thought for sure I wasn't going to apply for school, but then allowed myself to hope for a little while that I could save up the money to try. Then they cut my hours. I might not actually be able to pay all my bills this month. What goes? The internet, the phone, or the car? Only back a day and my low grade migraine has returned. I have to get out of here.