My writing life has kicked the bucket and is presently swinging at the end of a rope. It is not even struggling; it hangs there passively, slobbering a little, waiting for the end.
And I was so gung ho about it all this morning. Reading my Writer’s Market, jotting down ideas, chugging Maxwell House. Perhaps I was still slightly high from a couple strong bourbons I drank last night, or I was buzzed from caffeine.
The morning high plunged downward, along with my blood sugar, after I got lost in some content on my rarely read Google reader, then on to the hellish Technorati. That’s when I learned the truth about my writing life, indeed–the truth about my very existence.
I HAVE NO AUTHORITY.
Zilch. Zero. -0 .
I not only have no authority, I don’t exist in blogdom, at least in the Technorati blogdom. Like Govenor Palin in a world without without Tina Fey. Like George W. on innauguration day, or Gayle without Oprah. If Technorati was Brangelina, I am their contraceptive.
Think I’ll get dressed and go outside to see if the dog knows me. If he plays his cards right, I might even take him for a ride in the car.
