%20(1).jpg)
When my short story failed to make the cut I felt as if someone had reached inside of me, wrenched out my heart and dashed it against the sizzling concrete laden footpath that I take to work everyday. Yes, I take rejections badly. Badly enough to let my rationale hang upside down and get crunchy in the Dubai sun. After strumming through growls, snarls and tears, the drama ticking through my brain began to abate. And that was when I decided to glance at my short story once more. This time I looked at it as Them. I read it word by word; sentence by sentence when I felt it. A quiver in the soft marrow of my bones. The quiver of a clincher. I was not looking at my story. I was staring O-mouthed at the work of a poseur fluffy with feathers. Having choked on her own voice,she had glugged down another’s and casually fanned out words on the page that shrieked with absurd arrogance ‘Wait.Stop.Read my masterpiece.’ Words trapped to frigid sentences. Words that didn’t breathe. Words that were just words. Tears fell, drumming my cheeks and face. My ego that had gone on a lavish trip had landed, clutching cauterized bits of feathers.
For those of you sailing in the same boat as me, here is a little pick me up. Check out what Scott Fitzgerald had to say. He says it so well.
Comentários