My writing goal for today was to get back to work on the novel manuscript that’s over twenty years old. (Yes, two-zero, twenty.) It has not been going as well as I would like. It isn’t just the distractions of family and stupid puzzle games on the internet. No, today it’s the inner troll. I have several successful writer friends gushing over their sales in a day, a week, a month. I get… a sale. Maybe. I’ve gone months without a single sale. So I hear their figures, however vague they make them, and I’m embarrassed. I tell them I am happy for them. And I am! I think it’s great that there are people who are self-publishing and successful at it. But I don’t say a word. No one wants to hear someone whine. It’s like hearing someone talk about depression. You don’t know what to say. In fact, it’s just not talked about much at all. Just ignored in the hopes it will fix itself or just be forgotten about. My inner, unseen war with myself.