just got home to find the three chapters of my novel i'd sent off to the publishers in the letterbox, along with a rejection letter. a crushing blow. i hadn't really thought about what i expected to happen. i kind of switched off when i gave the envelope to my dad to post. if i'd posted it myself would things have turned out differently? no, musn't think like that. i guess i always had this knowledge that one day, through some publisher or the other, i would become a famous young author. that's the problem with being a novelist, or perhaps simply a human being. one is too idealistic. one "knows" that something exciting will happen sooner or later. maybe one then stagnates and waits for life to arrive rather than seeking it. that was a bad choice of words. i remember a stupid tv ad with the slogan "destination: life". that's as silly as saying that life is tangible. a destination. if life is the destination what is the journey? what are we doing if we aren't journeying towards life? merely existing. perhaps if we don't own the product the ad was selling we aren't living.
back to the novel. i saw my own handwriting on the self-addressed envelope i had to send with it. isn't that ironic. author writes rejection letter to herself, reads it and sits on the front steps of the house with tears in her eyes. masturbation in a dark room and all of that. that's not me. not me not me not me. i want to masturbate on stage. don't we all.
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