I’ve reentered the world of Writer’s Market,
that world where dreams dash against the rocks of phrases like, no unsolicited manuscripts, no unagented material.
A maze where magical words lose their luster amidst the dark shadows of procedure and proximity.
Where you wonder if you’ll ever come out the other side and almost wish you’d never gone in,
wish you’d stayed in that bright, open space where not necessarily certainty, but at least possibility, bloomed in big clouds above your head and in your heart.
Now my writing consists of queries and quandries, of spin and specious matter.
If only I could stay in that imaginary world of my own making
and not try to sell it in the real one.