Thursday, August 30, 2012

I've not written a whole lot this week, as my cold returned and I've been mostly tired and trying to sleep without a whole lot of luck. But I made a playlist for that book about A Forest That Eats Your Face. That's an accomplishment.

Tuesday at lunch I had a conversation with a friend about the truth in passes. When an editor says no, there's no use in wishing that they had said yes. If they were the right editor, they would've. Sometimes we think we know who the right editor is or we have an idea of who we want to work with, but that doesn't mean we're correct. It does not make it any easier when it happens.

I got a pass on Tuesday on a manuscript that had gone all the way to acquisitions. Honestly, it wasn't a surprise. It had been promising back in the beginning of April, but after months of nothing more, I didn't think it was going to amount to anything. And it's over, so I'm talking about it. There was a lot of hope wrapped up around this, and I was upset. But it wasn't the right home, it's still frustrating to have had to wait to be told no, but it doesn't negate the accomplishment.

An acquaintance told me while we were having coffee a week ago this story about going to a job interview and being sure that she had the job, it was hers—she could just tell. She ended up not getting the job, and it was devastating, but months later she got what was the perfect job for her. These sound like opiates we feed ourselves, feedback loops of when one door closes another one opens and everything happens for a reason, but the truth is that the wrong answer is the wrong answer. Sometimes we can't see it, so we get a lucky break and someone else sees it for us.

Once the disappointment fades, and the sting has been soothed, it's a relief more than anything. You can't survive on the edge of almost making it—dangling by a fraying maybe—forever. It's not action; it's idling. Forward or death. One step and then another.

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