The details of my latest brush with literary luck are all too few and not gory, but probably not different from your most promising speed date story. A quick and dirty crowded Sunday morning meeting in a cheap hotel was belatedly and cordially followed by a missive -- first fifty pages, very impressive. But initial attraction fizzled, and was not to be rekindled; who knows now if real sparks ever flew?
In dating terns, we will not meet anew. Me and that special someone who turned out only to be a respectful someone but will not be the one. O! slippery mistress fiction. Sometimes she seems so close, and then she slips away. Again. (Did I not sacrifice soul to pen, cross heart and declare I'd die trying?).
This latest blow had me seeking consolation in famous literary rejections, which abound. It sort of worked but also made me feel worse, like if Nabokov was getting no on charming Lo, and Kerouac was cold shouldered for six years after dashing off On the Road in three weeks, then maybe it's cheeky to expect even the occasional yes.
But cheek beats meek in my book, even if it means looking like a fool, falling in love and then declaring fuck off to an empty room after receiving a perfectly polite email. Go through the doom and gloom and be prepared for the next infatuation. It is inevitable. The perfect stranger still awaits, that special someone who can seem just so until slayed as yet another Buddha in the road.
Better luck next time. Fail better, per Beckett, apply Burroughs' Doing Easy principles and do over. A girl must not succumb to the desire to never pen another word besides her grand goodbye. She must remember that each no is only one, only one human, one opinion. One rejection in lives built on chains of small humiliations.
What's the shame? Come at it from some angles and the pain almost feels okay. Only one more loss. Only one more day. Only one. Opinion.
Only one look is enough. Hardly one copy would sell here. Hardly one. Hardly one.
Hardly one or hardly won. That rhythmic rejection was perfected for Gertrude Stein in the style of her submission, presumably. The cruelty. Hard won. Literary suxess, the blessed yes. The one.
(Today). Only one. That would be fun.