More About Miss Mousy U.S.A.

I held the above title for 15 years. My frazzled, untrimmed hair, saggy Land's End calf-length full black skirt (with elasticized waist), downcast eyes and lack of affect (some people thought I didn't have any feelings) I hoped signaled that I was a rebel artist, giving the world back as good as it gave. It gave very little. Not entirely because of my mousiness, but I realize now, looking back, that my appearance said:

• My employer doesn't pay me enough, and although I don't have the nerve to change my situation, let me serve as a reminder that the poor are always with you.
• I'm depressed and it's partly your fault.
• To hell with bodies. Minds are what count.
• I can see your inner beauty, so why aren't you astute enough to see mine?
  
• I'm punishing the capitalist patriarchy for its unattainable feminine ideals.
• I'm lonely -- but uninterested in commoners like you.
  
• I'm at one with the wretched of the earth.
  
• I've been abused; want to hear about it?
• What, fuss about looks and manners while our planet is dying?
  
• I'm above everything you think is important.
• Please notice my awful suffering and help me.
  

Then, bit by bit, I began to re-connect with other writers and play the cards the world dealt me. The things that restored my self-respect were 1) fellow writers, 2) self-publishing, and 3) money. That's why I'm always urging fellow writers to join groups, self-publish, and ask for money when they work.