You know when you're at work and you're trying really hard not to cry because you checked your personal e-mail and you got bad news bad news that you hoped would be good news that would let you write for money what you wanted to write for once instead of press releases and don't misunderstand you're lucky to have a job in this economy and everything but come on you would never be let in to the VIP parties you write about because these kinds of people would never take the subway to work because they don't work not really or eat in a food court where you ate today reading a book about Writing the TV Drama because apparently you don't know $hit because the CBC rejected you?
Well, that was me last week. In case you couldn't keep up with the run-on, here's a picture that represents my state at the time:
Okay, the pants/shoes/shirt combo is amazing, I know, but I was actually really sad for a day or so. But that was last week. A lot can change in a week. Real things that matter can happen to people you really love and it puts everything small and stupid into perspective or if that's a bit too much to think about and you want to distract your sad away with something happy you wander downtown for a game with some friends and meet up with more friends still and you eat a gluten-free and vegan poutine and you hadn't had poutine in over a decade and you're from Ottawa which is practically Quebec where if poutine ran for Prime Minister he would win.
So this is me now:
As you can see, I am writing. And you can't tell here because of all of the opium I'd been smoking when this photo was taken, but I am actually smiling. Yeah, I know. Even I'm amazed.
Although my rejections are voluminous enough to fill a very chatty blog, I keep going. Perhaps it's my Persian roots, incredibly twisted spine, pointy breasts, or fabulous taste in headdresses but my love for writing cannot be quashed. In fact, my next project is not just any writing project, but the most rejection-prone writing project there is: the screenplay.
It's just a loose story so far. Five minor plots melted together with some cheesy characters and white bread with the crusts cut off and... I have no idea where that metaphor was going so clearly this project, like my others, is doomed. The other sign? The title:
Tennis with Strangers.
Yep. I think we all know where this one is headed: