Writers, I’m convinced must be the most masochistic bunch of weirdos in the world! Think about it: we work for years and years to perfect a piece (as much as it can be perfected); send it out into the world for either editing help or to be considered for publication and then watch as our blood sweat and tears are torn to pieces and thrown in the mud, so to speak.
What do we do then? Give up? Why that would be much too sane, to reasonable, too… well, too predictable. No, we writers gather up our now mud spattered bits of story, wipe them off as well as we can. And go through the whole process again.
And it isn’t just once or twice that we do this. We subject ourselves to this torment dozens, sometimes hundreds of times. And yet, in our secret hearts, we love it. We thrill as we find just the right phrase. Our hearts pound, our breathing becomes ragged as we fall in love with a character. And, of course, we wait like widows on the seashore for that letter/email from a publisher, editor, or agent that says, “We want YOU! Join the ranks of professional writers and claim your gratification (unimmediate as it has been).
Sigh. I’m still waiting for that. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.