Screaming silence

Now and again, as a moment ago, I'm suddenly overcome by the deafening silence surrounding my work. There's no warning. I'm going about my business when the realization hits me that as a writer I'm invisible, marginal, inconsequential. The hard truth.

Ladies and gentlemen! May I present A CHARLES DEEMER READER, the highlights of a long literary career!

Response: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Then I recover and usually am able, as now, to rationalize my way back into some semblance of artistic existence, noting this that or the other award I've received, or competition I've won, or good review, or fan base, or whatever distraction it takes to push the screaming silence of oblivion back into the unconscious. And I can forget all this until the next unannounced moment of truth.