Wednesday, October 26Posted by Shelly Holder
We dream about it, cry about not getting it, work our butts off in achieving it, all for the opportunity to see our words on someone else's page. Our name in a byline. Just one re-Tweet on Twitter.
And it never gets old, does it?
I recently read a blog post (sorry can't find link anymore) which said that every publication is as thrilling as that first one. The cheek flush, the beating heart, the in-the-seat wiggles and surreptitious in-public squealing. But today I got an email that should've given me an endorphin rush like no other, and I. felt. nothing.
Nada. Not a single zip. My eyebrow arched and my mouth twisted, but I don't think it was in the right sort of way.
The email itself was lovely, perky and congratulatory, and it made me happy for about one nano-second in its innocence. I, on the other hand, felt old and jaded and a little like a long-time whore who just sold herself to the john that never says no. My reaction was "Of course you published me."
But I didn't feel like I deserved that cheerful email, and I knew from the greeting that I wouldn't find my substitute high. I was immune.
So what's the solution? More publication is just going to be a higher dose- chasing after that first experience without hope of repeating it. So do I go to a higher quality of goods- looking for the "perfect" publication, the elite lit mag or the exclusive publishing house? I just don't know. I never thought I would reach this place, where my dream fails to satisfy me.
It's kinda sad and lonely here. I want to leave.
I want to be happy writing. And maybe that means no more publishing for a while.
What I'm listening to: Pandora "Zero 7"
What I want most: a massage