I sometimes get frustrated about the process of becoming published. Or more to the point the lack of actual progress.
I thought when I got my first story published by Highlights, which earned me their Author of the Month award, and having same story selected as the title-lead for a Boyds Mill Press anthology, I was well on the way. Twenty-five years later I am still waiting for that stand-alone published book, that sought after accomplishment to become a reality.
When I get yet another rejection notice or (worse) no notice at all, I wonder if that indelible moment of “Kirkus reviewed it, Amazon carries it, found it at Barnes and Nobles moment” will actually happen. It’s not fame so much as leaving a noticable contribution. *sigh* It’s taking ever so long, and I might be collecting social security before I ever start collecting any royalty checks.
I take solace in the fact that Laura Wilder didn’t start publishing until she was past fifty. That helps. Coming across this poem that deals with failure, helps even more:
August in Waterton, Alberta
by Bill Holm
Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.
So–failure, the winds of defeat, no longer blow as noisily, the rattling of branches mocking my defeat, nay instead the sound is merely the tapping of the conductor’s baton warming the orchestra’s performance.