Or maybe it's that one has to already BE mentally ill to write (or, more specifically, attempt to become published.) I dunno. But lately I've been experiencing symptoms that MUST be like what manic/depressives go through.
There are days when I walk around thinking I am a GREAT writer! Soon, fame and fortune will be mine...ALL MINE!* I even allow myself to think about who might be a good actress to play my MC in the movie version of my wildly-successful book. (If I can convince Phoebe Cates to come out of retirement, she'd be perfect. She runs a store down the street from me and she still looks fantastic.) I know that's not really how it works, but indulge me here.
And then there are the Why Bother days. Eeyore and I would be great pals (well, if he wasn't just a drawing.) No one cares! Get a real job!
Anyway, as many of you know, I'm in the process of trying to get an agent. Which is not so easy, turns out. I'm happy with my query letter and it's received a good response. My query letter stats are impressive. I have some partials and fulls out, some with agents I would kill to have represent me. But all that means bupkis without an offer. Bupkis!
I guess all these wild ups and downs are still better than just the flat nothing of not trying. And you all will come visit me in the institution, right?
*I'm exaggerating a little here, if that's not clear. My ego is not quite that large.