Yesterday I discovered something disconcerting about myself. I need a cheerleader. Not just any ol' cheerleader to yell "Rah, rah!" and tell me I'm a fabulous writer. Nope. I need some poor devil who's stuck reading every word of my deathless prose--and yelling, "Rah, rah!"
It was a pitiful realization. I like to think that I'm independent and mature enough to write without constant encouragement, but apparently that is not the case. Yesterday all the usual suspects who get stuck reading my work were busy so I had to loaf along all on my own. I kept itching to send the bit I was slaving over to SOMEONE but everyone was gone! How dare they all desert me?
It's very lowering to admit that I'm addicted to instant input. In much the same way a singer or dancer performs for the crowd, I suppose I am performing for the vocal few who are willing to provide feedback.
My apologies to those individuals (you all know who you are!) whose good natures I've taken advantage of, especially in the last couple of weeks. I promise to cease and desist and get a life. Or at least pretend that I have a life. Or perhaps I'll go take a nap until the urge to post my latest three pages of brilliance finally passes.