It’s just how I feel this week. Work, waiting, receiving rejections. We’re told not to look upon rejections as failure but as a different kind of success. I finished the book, and that’s one goal reached, right? I have the ability to write another one, right? I have had work published, and that’s a victory.
I should be happier, and I’m not. I don’t see myself as successful. I have submitted work for twenty years. Rejection sucks. I don’t like it. I don’t want to shake it off. I don’t want to hear stories about how that lady who wrote The Help was rejected fifty times, or how people rejected the first Harry Potter book. I don’t want to hear successful, money-making authors give rah-rah speeches about how we shouldn’t quit, how we should finish our shit, and how our day will come.
I don’t see it. Days like this happen and all I can think about is giving the hell up, doing something else. Twenty-plus years I’ve done this and I’d hoped to be further along than I am now. People tell me, well, somebody moved your cheese. Go find it.
I’m tired. I wonder if there ever was cheese.
I’m not posting this to fish for sympathy. I just need to rant. Tomorrow I’ll have my outlines out and I’ll be back to work. I guess I’m masochistic in that sense.
No cheese, perhaps, but lots of crumbs.