Shine on, you crazy diamonds

I've had a couple of regular blog readers email me lately and sort of casually ask me if I'm OK. As in: Are you losing your freaking mind?

I'd like to think they're just concerned about me, and not making a specific diagnosis about my mental state. But one never knows, does one?

No. I'm not losing my mind. At least, no more than usual. See, I like to write the truth. The unvarnished truth -- warts, wood ticks and all. I tend to be a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Just ask any of my old newspaper editors. I like to stir things up. Free will run riot, that's me.

I figure if I'm going to go through the trouble of blogging, then why avoid the truth? We all know writer/bloggers out there in Internet-land who like to pretend they are fit as fiddles, that there's absolutely nothing out of whack in their lives or their minds. Their lives, if you believe their shiny little blogs, are going just swimmingly, thank you very much. Wife (or hubby) and kids are perfect. The car is a BMW. They aren't in the least bit quirky, but instead are very staid and normal and, well, kind of like those plastic women in The Stepford Wives. They chat about recipes and their kids and the PTO and sometimes, rarely, they mention their writing. They seem perfect.

They lie. Trust me. They do.

I mean, come on. They're writers for Christ's sake! It's been my experience that all writers are just a bit off, if you know what I mean.

Unless they're faking it. Unless they really are normal people who are just pretending to be writers. Then I suppose they really don't fall victim -- sometimes on a daily basis -- to the full-on, bat shit crazies. It's possible.

I write this blog to capture the journey. Someday, when I'm rich and famous, some interviewer will ask me if it was difficult to become a published author. And I will have the notes handy (this blog) to show him or her that no, it's not easy.

It was damned hard. And there were times when I thought I was going to quit, or go crazy. Or kick the damned cat or something. There were (are) times when I just want to chuck it all and become a Wal-mart greeter or a fry cook or a grease monkey.

But I don't. I keep on keeping on. Like we all do. The great Pink Floyd once sang: Shine on, you crazy diamonds.

I'm shining, brothers and sisters. I'm shining. Are you?

WRITING UPDATE: I spent the day polishing my query for the one-thousandth time and, once I got so sick of it I thought I was going to throw up, I sent it out to three more agents. I also pasted the first 10 pages of my manuscript onto the email. For those who are counting, that makes six agents queried. The first three were form rejections. Cross your fingers. I know I am.

Also, for those who asked about my eyelid after the vicious wood tick attack -- it's fine, albeit a little red and swollen. Since it was much larger than a deer tick, I'm not going to worry about lyme disease. Not yet, anyway. Of course, the last time I had a fever blister, I was deathly afraid I had come down with lip cancer. So I suppose it's only a matter of time before I start exhibiting symptoms. But for now, it's all good.

See you all tomorrow. Happy writing (for all you real writers out there).