Last week I spent a few days surrounded by the dramatic and ever-changing beauty of the Lake District. Though it was sometimes difficult to leave behind negative ruminative thoughts and the niggles of the every day, when I did walk in amongst nature in all her hues, focused mindfully on the present moment, it was inspirational.
It was miserable, therefore, to return to the news that I – or should I say, my writing, and sometimes it is difficult to hold onto that distinction – have been once more rejected. My novel did not win the competition being held by literary agents Furniss & Lawton. I don’t know if it makes it worse that they have decided not to award the prize at all this year. According to their website, the person who they wanted to win could not accept the terms and conditions of the prize. Which only evokes more questions. Why did this person enter in the first place? How come they can be so picky? And was everyone else’s work (including mine) so dreadful that Furniss & Lawton couldn’t bear to give another writer a chance?
I have been here many times before, and, even after these years of moderate publishing success and good feedback on some of my work, it is very difficult to pick myself up and keep going. However, to be a writer, that is exactly what I must do.