I started crying five minutes ago because I was watching eTalk daily (stay with me) and they were talking about this week's Giller awards.
I didn't even know the Gillers were this week.
Who am I? What has happened to my interest, passion, and ambition for literature and writing? I have been reading All the Pretty Horses for two months now and McCarthy is a god to me. I bought 7 summer novels and four of them haven't left the shelf.
More importantly I haven't written a thing in longer than I would like to admit.
My biggest fear is that I will never do this. But I am getting closer to the point where I will be ready to admit it to myself that it's not going to happen. And if I was enjoying what I was doing instead, I may feel differently about it.
But for now, it is embarassing and it is heartbreaking.