"No way to live..."

    Today I received a rejection from the Holy Grail of literary agencies. I'm going to refrain from telling you the name of this literary agency, but if you knew, oh boy, you'd be bummed for me. You might also say, "Well, I mean..., what did you expect?" Because, seriously, they're kind of a big deal. (Yes, I just referenced Anchorman. No, I will not apologize.)

    I've been rejected before. Aspiring authors get used to it. They didn't like the query letter, they didn't like the plot, they didn't like the flow, they hate you, get a life, yada, yada, yada... You have to develop this indomitable attitude. You have to convince yourself that you are talented and kind of a genius, that your story could be paradigm-shifting, that someone, somewhere is going to flip over it and you.
    I suck at all of those things, BUT I've been sticking it out. I've been taking it one agent at a time. I've been reminding myself that the emotional trauma will pay off one day. But today..., my hopes and dreams seemed to crumble before my eyes. My heart evaporated in my chest. My peace is shaken.
    I cried. I'm not much of a crier. I cry at movies and Grey's Anatomy episodes. (Yes, I watch Grey's Anatomy. No, I will not apologize.) But I had to cry today. That's the adequate response when you're questioning everything.
    I cried in front of my mother, who is hurting for me, of course - you know how moms are. And while she tried to comfort me, tried to help, tried to find the right words to say, she asked me this: Do you feel like you have a story that people need to hear?
    "I want to think that I do," I replied tearfully.
    "You know you do," she said.
    I do. I am obsessed, compelled, burdened with stories, with the need to send them out into the world. I think of Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens and J.R.R. Tolkien, and I can't help but feel the need to move the earth as they have. Stories are everything. They teach us, and shape us, and exhort us, and liberate us.
    I'm a storyteller. I've accepted this call. I'm not going to shy away from it simply because such-and-so didn't want me..., well, my story, but trust me, it feels like a rejection of me - and that's okay, as long as I don't let it tear me to shreds. I am a writer. And it is hard. And it is trying. And it is painful. And it is wonderful.
    I leave you with this Sophy Burnham quote, which perfectly sums up my feelings on the subject of storytelling:
    Not long ago, a writer friend, sunk in apathy and despair, came to visit.
    "What is it about writing?" he asked, striking his forehead with the flat of his hand. "Why is it so awful? It's no way to live! Why do we do it?"
    And then he leapt to his feet to walk unhappily around his chair. "Look at writers. I don't know a single writer who doesn't hate his work. Writers hate writing. They're always talking about how hard it is. Artist's don't hate painting. You never hear an artist talking about how much he hates his work. Sculptors don't complain all the time about how hard they find sculpting. But writers...!"
    A few weeks later I had occasion to ask an artist if she agreed. Do artists hate their work? She looked at me amused.
    "You're forgetting something," she said.
    "What?"
    "Writing is so powerful. People rarely look at a painting and weep."