A keyboard sits in front of me and I began typing in my mind while the following scene unfolds.
I’m on a large tree swing, swinging back in forth in giant swoops.
I feel like a child and my hair is in braids.
“Higher and higher, maybe I can touch the top branch,” I think.
Weeping willow branches hang like long wind chimes and the wind sings as it rushes through the leaves.
Suddenly there’s a huge home in front of me with a gigantic picturesque living room window.
I’m not able to slow down in time and I crash into the window.
I’m not hurt, but this is what my fingers start writing on the computer screen in front of my mind.
My writing career is like this giant window . . . in shambles.
Whoa, whoa, whoa!
Wait a second.
That’s pretty harsh!
Is this really how I feel?
My conscience steps in and starts to negotiate with my subconscience.
But, I’m working so hard, writing every day, working on my novel and starting another one.
Yes, but look at all the rejection so far. All the agents who decline on your work, the editors who say it’s just not what they’re looking for.
I know, but if you listen to published authors, they say persistence supersedes talent. I have to keep trying.
But all the time you’re wasting when you could be doing other things.
Suddenly, I’m on the ground, picking up shards of broken glass.
They’re cutting at my fingers, but that doesn’t stop me. Each piece of glass I pick up represents something I’ve written that’s been rejected.
Various pieces of glass are ideas I’ve started on, but then talked myself out of. Others are actual rejection letters from agents.
That’s a wicked dream, isn’t it?
Yesterday I received a letter of rejection from the editor of Arizona Highways.
I submitted an article to him titled:
Thrift Stores in
and shared the premise
“I’ve shopped from
Considering they recently published an article on “The Gum Lady: Her Collection is Mint,” I thought something like “The Thrift Store Lady,” just might work.
I was wrong.
I haven’t submitted any writing for over six months. Now, I remember why I stopped.
But I’ve got to keep trying.
Writing to me is like swinging. I love it so much.
And if I get cut by glass I'll buy more band-aides . . . for my heart.
The moral of the story? Don’t read a letter of rejection before going to bed. It makes for a horrible nightmare.