Lets see, for the last ten or so years I've been floundering around, squirming, straining at times, and endeavouring (see struggle in the thesaurus) to write something that would be well-liked by a broad audience and accepted by one or two critics as a worthy accomplishment. Therefore comma I thought I would give myself a little review and analysis of the situation as it now stands.
First off, I'm still working on getting something published by a regular publisher, having had several rejections, but I'm not in the least disheartened or dejected, but I'll poison myself slowly in order to enjoy this state of affairs longer than would be the case if I decided to be jumping off a cliff or getting run over by train, if I could find a train to run over me or a cliff high enough to do the trick here in the desert. In either case, I would have to walk too far. I can't see driving to a spot and leaving a perfectly good car for some vandals to vandalize or steal, and leaving my wife without transportation. Of course, I would never do either (any) of those things and miss out on receiving another interesting and well-worded rejection.
Second off, maybe I should have kept writing about family history and genealogy. I ran across several interesting tidbits and family idiosyncrasies that would provide fodder for several comical novels, and who knows, it might have turned out to be a better deal. No, I had to try my hand at westerns, givng up on the sure thing. I think I'll shoot myself instead, and I would if only I had the right-sized gun. Too big a bullet would leave too much of a mess for the wife to clean up, and too small a shell wouldn't even penetrate my thick skull.
Third off, writing the western. At first, I have to say, putting the cowboys and cowgirls on paper really came easy, and my output was fantastic, and I worked furiously and late into the night shooting everybody in sight in my stories and littering the desert and mountains with corpses and even a few Indians. AHA! I said to myself, what a deal! This is great literary and funny stuff! And I sat back in my high-backed swivel office chair, well-padded seat and back, and said to myself, "Well done! Jolly well done! By golly! I did it!" and went to my cedarwood four poster (made out of real trees with the limbs severed) and slept keenly with no dreams or nightmares.
Foruth off, I woke up to the fact that now I had a big pile of manuscript(s) and my brain chock-a-block with more stories. Then - rejection letters. I think I'll cut my throat, if I can only find a knife sharp enough and the right size that won't leave any blood stains on the carpet for the wife to clean up.
Fifth off, waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting for a rejection slip is not in my nature, and it is difficult for me to put more words on paper with a book at some publisher, the anxiety and stress, etc., is almost unbearable. However, knowing that I'm not the only one with this problem eases the wait somewhat, but I think I'll commit "hari-kiri," if only I knew where to begin this solemn undertaking. Do I cut myself vertically first, or horizontally? Or do I just stick the instrument into some vital spot? Do I pray before I start or during the procedure? What kind of a mess is left for the wife to clean up? I could look it up on the net, but that just takes more of my valuable time, what's left of it. What's a person to do?
Oh, the Hell with it! Another story just popped into my addled brain.