How About The Economy Can Just Bite Me? Yes?

The publishing industry is in trouble. It's not dying, not by any means. But it is hurting. In case you've missed it, there have been a lot of really good posts lately about it all, especially this one.

My point? Well, the inference, certainly for a writer trying to crack the industry, is the chances of my being successful were just flushed down the proverbial potty. I suspect it's very true.

Eh. True schmue. How about the economy can just bite me.

Don't get me wrong-this downturn has dire consequences for those like editors and agents whose amount of refrigerator contents depend on their receiving paychecks. My heart goes out to them. And without question, the industry will change. Especially bookstores. And maybe not for the better.

But I'm a writer. When I first decided to do this, wiser, more experienced, and much smarter writers took me aside and said are you really sure you want to do this? Alpaca farming would be much easier, and far less dirty. There's much less crap involved.

But yes, I said. I want to try. And if worse comes to worse and it doesn't work out, there will always be alpacas. Then do it because you love it, was their advice. But don't ever count on it paying your rent. Be grateful if it does, but don't count on it. It's good advice.

For me, this news is all rather like being a runner in a marathon. The gun has just gone off and suddenly a voice comes over the loud speaker.

"Sorry," it says. "There's been a little glitch. The finish line? At mile 26? We had to move it to mile 48. Nothing we could do. Good luck."

Well. That sucks. The problem, however, is I'm already running the race. I got up at the butt crack of dawn to be here, dragged my family and friends out to cheer me on. I even have my number safety-pinned to my back, for pete's sake. And did you see my shiny new hot pink sneakers? Vair sweet.

And I didn't sign up hoping to win. I actually believed, due to my highly inflated sense of self-worth no doubt, that I might even make it to the finish line. Sure. I'll probably need to crawl across it, but, whatever. I think I can. Does the fact they made it harder matter?

Yep. For some people. Did you just see how the crowd thinned out? But not me. Nope. I've worked for this. I've been practicing. Sweating. Trying until I want to cry. And sometimes I even have. And sometimes I chased those tears with chocolate and Twinkies. My pants won't even button. That's how much I've tried.

There's a good chance, with the finish line being at mile 48, that I won't make it. I am many things, but I like to think stupid is not one of them. (On some days.) Odds say somewhere around mile 18 I'll have a heart attack and kick-off. That whole waistline thing, you know?

But I'm still running. Forget water. I have my family and TTT's at each mile marker handing off cups of wine and bags of frozen M&M's to keep my energy up. I have good friends like Mags and Linda in tiaras, running beside me. I have my heroes to look up to, who've already crossed the finish line and lived to tell about it. And I have Hubby. Driving along behind us in a golf-cart, wielding that spatula to keep me going.

So go ahead. Move that line. Bring it on, baby. Just, bring it on.

:)