I came back from Cornwall to an envelope from Iota, containing my poems and a polite, uninterested rejection letter. Rob offered to look at the poems, if they came back, so I might take him up on that. On the other hand, though, these NaPo poems, of which I was so fond, have come back enough times now for me to know that they're no good. Nothing I've written has ever been any good. Perhaps it's time now for me to put publishing down as a childhood dream rather than an ambition to pursue. Maybe I should focus my energies in the future on church and family. I believed I had a talent, something really special. Perhaps I was deluded. Perhaps I'm a very ordinary sort of girl, who should put her mind to ordinary things. Perhaps I'll just be one of the thousands reading the books and wishing, rather than one of the few writing the books.
I'm doubting my vocation too. I mean, you can't very well have a priest who's terrified of people, one who sometimes can't even sit through a service without having a panic attack. I can't see any future for myself at all of late. It's a very low sort of day for me.