Writers:
Every rejection becomes a feather, pinned to your breast like a badge of honor, as you survey the endless horizon ahead, knowing they'll come to serve the story of how you learned to fly.
Until the one comes that flattens you—strangely, no worse in tone than the rest—and you see that the horizon you've long been plotting is—oof—just a crack in the ceiling, right overtop that water stain.
And all those feathers you've been fearlessly storing, saved by the months or years of hoping, have become the ostrich, now squat on your chest—now bleeding your breath—as you keep one eye glued to that stupid crack
and the other eye, reddening, fixed on the bird's, both of you waiting on who will blink first,
while your water stain turns into a Rorschach of words
oddly enough, in the shape of a
story.
4 comments:
If only rejections were money, my money troubles would be over
I've told you before, and I'm telling you now.
'eff these agents.
Let's self publish the book, and market the shit out of it.
I'll do it for you for a year for free. We can then talk pancakes for payment for next year.
Charles, I'm really racking up more than my share. Or maybe not.
Aniket, they may have a point, you know. I might not be the most commercial writer in the world.
But if you become my publicist, I'm going to start calling you Hotcakes. Unless you can come up with something better. Which I doubt, Hotcakes.
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