So I've been bashing away on the editing front this morning, cringing at the piece I'm working on which I started a couple of years ago and have only just decided to re-visit and the postman arrives. There is the familiar thud of another 'Ginnungagaps' manuscript returning home with its tail between its legs. Another rejection letter. That's 11 so far for this book. Should I accept that my first novel is going nowhere on the publishing train? Should I accept that there are hundreds and thousands of other writers out there who are more talented/ luckier/pushier than me and that 'Denise The Published Writer' is a myth and a whim and a pie-in-the-sky never to be eaten fantasy? (What kind of pie? asks Miggins, who is an authority on pies. 'Chicken and asparagus,' I say. 'Don't be ridiculous,' snorts Miggo. 'You can't make a pie from chicken.' 'Don't push your luck,' I say. Rejection brings on such murderous feelings.)
In the same post there was this month's issue of Writing Magazine. And inside, on the competition page was the winning entry for a competition I'd entered about 4 months ago. Sadly, not mine...
BUT...
...on the shortlist of finalists was...
ME!
I made it to the final 10 of a writing competition!!!!
I know, I know. I didn't win. I wasn't even a runner-up. But my name is there, in the magazine. A tiny, weeny, minor victorette.
Suddenly, I want to be a writer again.
Well done, Denise, you will win through and this is surely the Universe saying ' keep going.'
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