The micro that was just rejected has had just one rejection, but I find myself unable to send it anywhere else, even though I had a really good place in mind. I've made tremendous progress on THE LUNATICS' BALL, with the end of a full first draft in sight. (That is, a first draft of the collection; the individual flash and essays have gone through multiple drafts.) But discovering that I hadn't incorporated my beta reader's suggestions for the first third has brought my writing to a screeching halt. Can I do this? Of course I can, but it doesn't feel that way right now.
Two people have asked me to talk to their classes (in August and October), an honor I appreciate. I've made a commitment to write something short about "The Tell-Tale Heart." I've got to assemble an interview of a writer whose work I love. Work at CRAFT has accelerated a bit and I need to correspond with authors and write intros to some of our forthcoming pubs. There's plenty to do right now. Maybe it's the heat and not impostor syndrome (at least not for all of these tasks), but I'm feeling disinclined to do anything at all.
Gratified that writers I respect but barely know (Matt Kendrick and Lindy Biller) have recently posted old flash of mine on Twitter as good examples of ekphrastic flash ("Head of the Household") and the use of fairy tales ("Girls in the Woods"). My impostor syndrome tells me, well, yeah, you used to be able to write.
Steve and I sat on a beach near Mendocino and read for a while before we drove home Thursday. It already feels like a long time ago. I thought I might do some writing on the trip and didn't, but I read a novel and ate some great food. A nice anniversary.