What do you mean, you don’t want my story? There must be some kind of mistake. I was sure you would see what a superior story it is, how perfectly crafted, how beautiful in its pathos and longing. Did anybody even read it carefully?
That story is terrible. I can’t believe I sent it out in that condition. How embarrassing. It’s dumb. I’m dumb. I’ll never have the writing career I want. I’ll never write anything meaningful. No one will ever love and cherish and laugh and cry over my words. I am going to curl up in bed with this box of chocolate and a book written by someone who is obviously a much better writer than I am.
This book isn’t bad, but I can write this well, if not better. In fact, I’m going to go work on my novel right now. And then when I’m done whipping that into shape, I’m going to look at my list of 800 possible projects and pick one and start something new.
Writing is HARD. Jesus God, why of all the things in the world that could have been my passion did it have to be something so HARD? I am going to go to that poetry reading for inspiration and call up a writing friend and have wine and together we will moan about how hard writing is.
Poetry is beautiful. Life is beautiful. Everything is beautiful, including this glass of wine. I am so inspired. I am going straight home to polish that story and send it out again, and this time it will win a prize. It will be published and lauded and revered. I will finally share something I have created that is meaningful to someone else, this story will launch the career I desire, and everything will be perfect. I love my life.