“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” – Moliere
Or, maybe I could have one of those epistemological breakthroughs like Emily Dickinson is said to have had after being jilted in love. Oh some days it blows to be a writer. Most days it sorta blows frankly and then, well, there’s today.
A big fat rejection.
Not just any old rejection, the big one for me. A book I have been working on since 2000 was rejected once again. I got the lovely e-mail PFO this morning and read it over my mourning coffee. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
It’s time to press the reset button. Unpack this monster in the box. Rearrange its parts. Rethink the whole thing.
This is the thing about writing — it’s what people don’t see. I’ve worked on the book on and off for thirteen years and have written pages and pages — some of it has been published, to be fair, but the manuscript as a whole needs to go back to singing school.
Always for love, never for money, a line in a Talking Heads song goes. Maybe for just a few close friends perhaps. Write for them.
This isn’t working.
(Finger hovers over red reset button — music swells — extreme close up, finger comes down).