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I arrive at secret motel every evening after work and surrender myself to exhaustion, listening to music or radio voices in my sleep until 9 or 10 pm, then unable to fall asleep when I should. My body and mind are misshapen from these dead hours of morning. I try not to think about being stuck in places I don't belong. It might not be so bad, if I could think of a place where I do belong--a goal, a destination I can work for. Work is something I understand and do not fear. It's the objectives that are foggy.

I keep telling myself that 2008 is the year I abandon my car wrecks and airline disasters. Or at least cease sending them out for other eyes to view and blink away (one editor even sent me note saying, "H., with all due respect, enough already!"). I guess I'll keep working on them, even though no one else will ever see them. I feel some sense of pride and satisfaction when I look over the better ones I've made. But I'd like to do other things, too. I just don't know what. I'm dying for an outlet I can obsess over and gain a sense of accomplishment. But I fear becoming whatever it is failed writers become.

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