I came home and fell into a serious funk. So did my husband. It took us more than a week to shake it off. (If I’m completely honest, I’m still not 100% back. In a minute I’ll get to how I’m addressing it and ask for your suggestions.) Here’s the weird thing, we were especially thrown by our malaise because we’re both lucky enough to LOVE our work and our home and our neighborhood, and now that we’re back home we aren’t sharing an itty bitty stateroom with two kids. So, why?! Why were we so deeply burned out on our lives mere days after returning from a restorative vacation?
Once upon a time, I was a magazine editor with an inbox full of pitches from writers and publicists. Many of the senders probably submitted those queries and imagined me waiting for them to come in, reading through each one carefully to decide whether or not it had merit.
Here’s what was really on my mind each time a new pitch pinged through:
When I was an aspiring writer, I often heard other wannabes bitch about the unfairness of it all. You know the conversation – it’s not about the writing, it’s all about who you know. The only people who get ahead are those with trust funds, who went to Ivy League schools, the types who rub elbows with New York gatekeepers and can slip agents manuscripts over drinks…yadda yadda yadda. Stubborn idealist that I am, I refused to believe them. I’d been raised by movies that told me “If you put your mind to it, you can do anything.”