I don’t know how to let go of things when I screw up.
I owned it, fixed what I wronged, yet it still left me on the floor,
I curled up on the floor, sobbing while a sweet dog nuzzled my neck.
My wife convinced me it’s time to see a psychiatrist.
She’s right, no one should be this sad and this anxious all the time.
I am afraid I’ll lose the will to write, but even that’s already a struggle.
Meanwhile, I’m putting together the query letter and synopsis
Sending Gravity’s Reach out to authors is a nerve-wracking thing.
I’m normally good at ignoring the cold hopelessness feeling,
But lately, it’s ever-chilling and I can’t seem to find a spark.