I love writing. I love reading. I love telling stories. I love words. It’s my thing. Most people have a thing, whether it’s a love of art/music/film or a need to make minute sculpture, or juggle or garden, or…well, anything. Words are my thing. The essence of it is my desire to communicate I suppose. I write something and I am telling a story, and sending it out to strangers, because I want my story read. Sometimes they see something good in it, they like it, they want it, understand it. And I feel elated, understood and validated. Other times they see something in it that I was unaware was there. They may tell me they thought the way I did x or y was clever/funny or some such, and I will be amazed at this. I haven’t known that it was there, I don’t feel I can take credit for it as it was unconsciously placed. It is magic. That too feels wonderful.
But these words sent out with hope sometimes are ignored, or worse yet, rejected. I enter a competition, and I dream of winning, or of maybe being in the top 3 say, and I get nowhere. It is a rejection. Or I submit a story, and hear back, no thanks, try again. I feel despondent, untalented. They didn’t like my words, so they weren’t good enough words, so I’m not a good enough writer. And I tell myself over and over that reading is subjective, and what one person loves another finds leaves them cold. I know I should just send that story right back out, but I don’t. It has failed, I have failed.
It’s a nervy thing, I am trying to face down my fears and submit work. I currently have 3 pieces out somewhere.
Checking my emails makes me anxious.
The winners of the Pulp.Net/Bloomsbury competition were notified today. Not me then. Ho hum.