Today was not a good day in the life of Naomi. The literary agent rejected me. Nicely, but rejected me just the same. The rejection came with a very helpful critique of my work and a tag in an email that said she thinks I am a talented writer of humour.
And that, friends, is unfortunately enough to keep me keeping on. Those few words are enough to encourage me to get back to the computer and try again. That’s the problem with artists. No matter how well aware we are of the realities of our profession, and how dreadful the odds of making our passion our career, every time we submit our work, or ourselves, there is a part of us that genuinely believes we’re going to get it. Otherwise, why would you do it in the first place? How could you do it in the first place? Would you go for a job in HR if you really didn’t think you had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting it? Probably not.
And it’s that (so far) unyielding sense of optimism that won’t allow me to quit and find an easier path to take. Don’t think I haven’t tried to talk myself into a full time career as a long distance truck driver, (though I have serious case of driving narcolepsy so that’s perhaps not the best choice) but there is nothing else I want to do.
Just sing and write.
And until that optimism, that belief in myself that somehow, someday I will make it all work, fails me, I’ll still be here, blogging and submitting, writing and editing, singing and dreaming…and running. Because this is what I thought about while I pounded around the edge of our beautiful harbour and tried to cheer myself up.
You put yourself in this mess Hart, so you can find a way out of it.
This is a war of attrition. If I hang in here long enough, one day I will win.