This week I persevered. Oh, that word. It is perfect for writers, isn’t it? It is what a writer must do for even the hope, the chance at publication. It makes me smile. It reminds me of the old Indian, Lone Watie in The Outlaw Josie Wales.
I persevere. I write every day. I submit, wait, resubmit. I wait on contest results and keep writing and editing. I observe with focused intent. I eavesdrop on conversations looking for authenticity in my dialogue. I read with my mind not on just the joy of reading, but always with an analytical eye toward the writing. 'I endeavor to persevere.'
The thing is, I do love to write. It seems a paradox that I’m so eager every day to get to my desk and begin. Yet, there, sitting in my nice comfy office chair with all my favorite things around me—books, pens, plants, ink bottles, paperweights, family pictures, cowboy stuff(hey, I’m a collector)— I sometimes begin with all the eagerness of going to my own hanging.
It’s the failure. Nobody wants failure. We’re all afraid of it, but writers kind end up with this expectance for it, this kind of conditioning. We will fail. (The unconscious thinks…so what’s the point) Don’t know any writer who hasn’t had a rejection or two. Mostly, many more than two. We even save the proof of failure, file it away, count each one.
On one hand we need to do that, on the other, it is killing our muse. So, we persevere, but we do persevere. The best of us do anyway.
So... as Josie Wales would ask, 'Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?'
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