My dictionary defines frustration as “a feeling of dissatisfaction, often accompanied by anxiety. . . resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems.”
I don’t know about you, but I often wear frustration the way I might wear a really ugly sweater against my will: with grudging tolerance. Lately, though, my frustration feels like a shrunken and ugly sweater. Think itchy and suffocating. This particular frustration is wrapped around my latest novel. I happen to be smitten with it (just sayin’), but I am ready to be done with it and send it out into the world. My work in progress and I have had great times together, but enough is enough.
Or is it? I have a few more elements to fuss with, revise, tweak, and massage. Yet, the hours in each day keep evaporating. Life stuff keeps popping up uninvited. Presentations and events that were scheduled months ago are suddenly here. Oh yes, and apparently tax paperwork must be filled out. And the phone keeps ringing--again and again and again, just to add to the fun. Argh!!! I don’t want to let my novel go before I’m satisfied that it is as good as it can be, but the editor in me is screaming For the love of all that is publishing, give yourself a DEADLINE, girl! Plus, there is this other novel in my head getting really impatient and squirmy for attention. Something like a neglected two year old.
Ahh, yes, frustration. Is there any of this kind of fun and nonsense in your world?