Here goes nothing

I have been trying to sell a novel since I was twenty. I'm now 54, and my file of rejection slips is over an inch thick. I think I'll burn them. Of course, it's entirely possible that my writing just isn't good enough. I think it's just bad luck and the increasing shrinking of the publishing world.

I was going to self-publish with my income tax refund, but thanks to my husband, all that money just vanished. I'm not sure what happened to it, but I sure didn't see any.

I have 5 finished novels, and am rough-drafting a sixth. I guess I'll attempt to write synopses and get them in the mail again, though I just don't think it's going to help. And it takes half a year to hear back! What's up with that? Do all the publishers think writers are immortal? Geez.

Moving sucks

My dad wasn't in the military, yet I once figured out that by the age of 21, I had lived in 17 houses in 5 states. If you count that I lived in Kansas twice, that's six. That doesn't count the college dorm rooms. I moved from one room to another during my freshman year, and again had to switch rooms my junior year. Each year, of course, I had to pack up everything and schlep it home, then schlep it back the next year. Let's see, that's six more moves. At least they were only a roomful, not an entire household.

Then, after college but when I was still living at home, my folks moved again. Okay, 17 + 6= 23. So that was my 24th move. At the age of 23. Yikes!

Then my first apartment, move 25. Then back with my parents when my dad was dying, 26. Then to graduate school, 27. Then to El Paso: 2 apartments and one house, bringing my moves up to 30. Then to Albuquerque: 2 apartments, 1 house, and 2 duplexes: my grand total of moves at age 54 is 35.

Sweet God in heaven.

Every single move, stuff got lost, stuff got broken. Friends vanished into the past, favorite places are seen no more. But you get new stuff, new friends, and new favorite places, so it balances out.

I'm still damn sick of packing.