I––like all true living, breathing, normal human beings––have a love/hate relationship with Mondays. I hate them because they mean the end of the weekend...even though I never really seem to have weekends that seem in any way, shape, or form, to be epic. I hate them because they signal the beginning of a five-day stretch of monotonous activity. On the other hand, I love them because they seem to be a blank canvas, a new beginning to a new chapter. Sometimes I wonder if I expect too little or too much of my Mondays, when I sit down to my computer hoping that some missive awaits me in my INBOX, some configuration of letters and words that all combine into a string that will signal a sea change in some part of my future. A congratulatory e-mail from my agent saying that one of the publishers we've queried wants to buy my manuscript. A bid for a writing contract with a major magazine publisher. Something. I hold my breath and say a little prayer and log in to my e-mail and find...often times, nothing but junk mail. It's Monday, after all, and I am but a lowly free-lancer. My place on the totem pole is low for many people come Monday, when they have thousands of other more pressing e-mails to address. I am forgotten, while I can hardly forget the unanswered query letter, the unsent reply. I know, realistically, that I am not truly less important, but this suspension leaves me feeling out of sorts, frustrated, and––once again––hating Mondays.
Just another Manic Monday.
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