I'm printing out a copy of my novel for submission to Six Gallery Press. They're an indie publishing house here in the burgh. I think if I have a shot with anyone at this point it's with them.
It's kind of disheartening to send out 25 query letters to 25 literary agents and receive 25 rejection letters back. I see why people give up on their hopes and dreams. I'm pretty sure I will never realize my dream of being a writer, making a living off of it, writing what makes me happy (not Technical fucking Manuals).
I feel like I need a change, a spark, something to get the fuck out of this day to day mundacity of work, drink, work, drink, skateboard. I'm rapidly careening toward a life of white picket fences and couples only dinner parties and I don't know what that's going to be like. Sick of it all. Death or Glory? Fuck. The desire that once burned inside, forcing me to try and seek greatness, has dwindled.
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