So here's what I don't get, about myself: a gander back through this here blaugh will show you just what a sunny optimist I am (not), yet, when there's the possibility of Fame and Fortune in the offing (see previous post), I always expect the grandest outcome. I've been working on my award acceptance speech and spending my vast book advance, despite the fact that I know the chances of The Shark liking Nine Days enough to make me an offer of representation are roughly forty-seven trillion to one. I should, instead, be bracing myself emotionally for how to handle the rejection, when it comes. Yet, I never do that. I always assume people will be so very impressed with the things I do that they couldn't POSSIBLY not want to shower me with wealth and adoration, and then, when the inevitable happens, I'm crushed. CRUSHED. Even though I often accuse myself of being only very marginally talented (and really believe it; I'm honestly not faking the self-hatred for effect). Is it some kind of first-born child thing? Am I a psychopath? What's the deal?
Why ‘coming out’ matters
4 hours ago