Ups and Downs by Sandra Horn
This is a well-worn topic, but then I’m a well-worn writer. I have spasms of sending ‘stuff’ out. Sometimes new stuff, sometimes stuff that’s been the rounds before – on the little flickering wings of hope that this time, this time, it would find a home. Here, dear Editor, is my precious child, a drop of my heart’s blood, a small shining piece of my soul. Take it and cherish it. What?? It doesn’t fit your publishing needs? Thanks but no thanks? Not even that, but silence? I look again and see, now, the taint in my heart’s blood, the deformity in my precious child, the smear across the piece of my soul. How could I have thought anyone would want it, let alone love and cherish it? I am a deluded fool. I will slink off into outer darkness and never show my sorry head again. Thought I could write, did I? Hah! Black hole of despair (Fingal's Cave, really) Or...what was the matter with the idiot who failed to see the worth of my precious child, the life-pulse of my ...