Expectations, dreams, hopes - they can lift you up on some kind of high. And then, for whatever reason, it just doesn't happen. Things just don't work out. What then? What do you do? What on earth do you do?
I feel like that right now. I haven't even been rejected by anyone. I'm only at the beginning of the submission stage, yet it feels like I'm at the end of it.
Sometimes you look out of the window at night, at the lights and the darkness that is the sky, and you wonder if this is how your life will be defined. Ha! Here lies someone who tried!! Not: here lies someone who was successful, or here lies someone who did something worth remembering.
I really do believe I've written something I would've been happy to buy for myself. More than anything else I've written. Perhaps that's why I feel so grim about it all.
Tomorrow, I go to Newcastle - to buy some clothes, to buy MG's Invisible City, the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, too, and to visit Noel the Ultimate Proofreader. Hoping my mood will have lifted by then.
Rejections are the most awful things: you have to send off to quite a few agents, so if you are rejected, it turns into some kind of snowstorm savage enough to cut you in two.
Ultimately, you do it to yourself; you only have yourself to blame, in the final analysis. Of course, we can all get published: we can either pay for it, or self-publish. But let's not go there. It's not an option - at least, it's not my option.
Snowstorms in February. In my head.
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