My personal life is (finally) great, and after a long time in the wilderness, I have a job that I actually enjoy and that doesn’t expect my soul in return for my payslip every month. The only point of this triangle currently amiss is my writing.
This year started off with promise. I finished Slipwater – a novel I am extremely proud of – and it has been sitting with a number of agents since early February, but since that feeling of accomplishment I have not done much to maintain the momentum. A short story here, a revision or two there, but that’s about it.
Well that stops today.
I received another rejection letter this morning. I’ve been getting them for over half my life now. No big deal: that’s just part of the constant struggle for acceptance… and I don’t only mean acceptance of a particular story, but also the wider definition of every writer’s desire to have his or her words heard, and for them to mean something to someone.
But this rejection is one too many, so I need to pull my fingers out of my ass and put them on the keys again.
You know, obviously I’ll wash them first.