Letting go

I'm beginning to understand something about writing. While I was working on this story, it was all I could think about. Tweaking, tuning, polishing, etc. Once it was finished, I read it and re-read it a dozen times. So proud, so proud!

However, now that it's been done for a few days, I don't want to look at it again. I'm tired of it. I just want it to get out of the nest and make room for something else to grow and develop. Another short story? More work on my novel(s)? I don't know.

I do know that these recurring daydream fantasies of being "discovered" thanks to this story are just ridiculous. Magazine editor reads this story, instantly agrees to publish it. Not only that, he/she shows it to a friend over at a book house (if this publisher doesn't also do books), and they ask if there is any more where this came from. "Why, yes," I say, modestly, "I do happen to be working on a novel at the moment." They plead to see a draft. I send them a chapter. They swoon, and offer me $50,000 on the spot, sight unseen. I take a week's vacation from my day job, finish the book and send it in. Though this is a small publisher, it takes off like a rocket, climbing the Best Seller list. A two book deal with the small house follows, then a three book deal with a major house after that. One or more of the books are made into a successful major motion picture. I make enough money that I never have to worry again.

What would be beneficial to me at this point is a solid dose of reality, maybe three or four heaping tablespoons of it. Reality is a heroically powerful laxative. Anybody who's been served up a heaping helping of reality, and been forced to choke it all down, is far less likely to be full of shit than someone who's never had to face reality.

So, here's the Noland Truism: one rejection notice is equivalent to one tablespoon of reality. I will pick a venue and submit it electronically. Maybe tonight, in fact. The sooner I get some reality, the better off I'll be.