The resentment pushes out of me in waves, undulating with the intensity of the feeling. I hang up the phone and stalk away. I know I am being childish, that the person on the other end of the line has no clue why I feel this way. Yet, at this moment, all I can feel is a loneliness I can’t quite capture in words.

The angst, the pain, the joy, the balloon of hope, the shards of rejection eat away at me. In the grand scheme of things, none of this matters. I don’t call myself a professional writer yet. A career if any, is a long way from happening. I am experimenting, toying with forms, figuring how far to go with the sharing and the not sharing.

There are days when I want to sit across the table, pour my feelings out and watch it reflect in the face in front of me. I want them to feel elated when they see my name in print, the way strangers reach out across the internet. I want them to feel my sadness as I read the latest rejection email and commiserate with me. In short, I want them to be me.

The absurdity of my expectation hits me and I feel the weight of loneliness all over again.