Okay. Blame it on the cold weather that makes frails out of the strongest of us. Blame it on winter sun that has only this morning deigned to make an appearance. Blame it on my too-long, weather-borne absence from my beloved refuge on the river.

But I’m feeling insecure today.

I hate fragile. Except in private. That’s mine; not a burden to be laid on anyone else’s shoulders. Except sometimes.

Lynn is back in the land of Dread. The deadly what-ifs. In an ad career that, with increasing frequency, starves my soul, I turn to my own writing to give me what the workday cannot. But. But. But.

I’m looking up the sheer cliff of a book’s plot. That’s part of it. But the rest–nobody’s fault, nobody’s problem but my own.

Waiting to hear from an agent. The hardeyed awareness of the state of the publishing industry. The same “little me” that set my first attempts at being published years further down the road than I might have. The isolation-chamber that is writing, which begs, sometimes, for any other voice but my own. The rearing, ugly head of a need for outside affirmation. All fellow citizens in this cold and scary place.

What if, hmmm? What if nobody ever reads what I write? What if, despite the best I can produce, I am writing for a small circle of friends only? Do you stop loving if no one loves you back?

Long story short: So goes the writer’s life. I’ll get over it. I have to.