Dita Parker

Thursday, November 18, 2010

So you're telling me there's a chance

So. Got an answer for that submission of mine with Ellora's Cave. Revise and resubmit, it said. If you can. If you dare. No, that's not what it said but that's how it feels on first reading, like you've failed, royally. You pathetic excuse for a wannabe writer. Fluke. One-hit wonder. Not even much of a success, that first attempt, now was it, come to think of it, discounting the pirates?

Come to think of it, what are the odds? If you don't know me by now, here's the deal: I picked up writing after a long break and got an offer for the first erotic romance I ever submitted. Had to revise. Did. Got published. See the lovely gent to your right. So, been there, done that. Wrote something different this time around but will be going through the same grinder again. No promises, no guarantees, only the chance to prove I can do it. One chance and one chance only.

Can't remember who said and can't be bothered to Google that the world doesn't need another writer, or another story. Well, I think this writer needs this story. I need my work cut out for me, something so daunting I dare not lose courage, something dangled just within my reach, and the notion that maybe I'm not much of a writer after all, aren't I going to prove them any different?

This couldn't have come at a worse and it couldn't have come at a better time. She would haunt me for all eternity if I lost heart now, even if I feel it's already gone MIA. He wouldn't approve of the moping or the mourning, not for a second. He would ask, "Why the long face? Someone die?" I would nod. "Was it you?" I'd shake my head, he'd shake his and ask, "So why the long face?" He would tell me life goes on and I don't have to forget, I'd better not forget, only keep being kind, curious. Unafraid.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go bury my grandfather. Don't tell my editor. I need her to believe I can do this. I need her to believe I believe I can do this, and I do. So no long faces, no excuses, no complaints. Cheer me on, wish me well, and maybe somewhere in the not so distant future we'll be talking star-crossed lovers.

Be good. Be well. Be happy. With one hundred percent certainty, we're all gonna die. Do you know what the odds of being born are?

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