The day I started writing, I thought I’d arrived at the promised land. I wept with joy at the misshapen words I’d written, convinced they’d inspire a generation. – It had to be true, cos my mum and a couple of close friends said so!
My first trauma came when I sent my ill-thought prose to a premier agent, who stated they only took on one or so new authors per year. – Obviously they meant me.
And then the rejection letter came.
I was desolate. My first reaction was to conclude they’d never read it, and it was all a mistake. I posted an excerpt of my writing elsewhere, and received praise, reinforcing my delusion. – But then one person, my saviour, critiqued my work and told me it stunk… After the adrenalin-forged wrath dissipated, I read his comments again.
This was the start of a journey, which I’d previously thought complete. – Years of writing, learning, editing and then rewriting. – I listened to everyone, and took whatever value I could from their comments. I learned and accepted I was not an awesome author, but a writer who worked damned hard, challenging his limited ability every day.
I’d once thought success was defined by bestsellers and fame, but I can now recognise that as a distant dream. Success for me is the journey, and pushing the destination as far away from where I started as my talent will allow.