how you tripped at every step
On a regular basis, I work on my details. I fall in love with them; for instance, I can't help but use internetspeak, especially when discussing non-children's books, I wear old lady sunglasses because I can put them over my glasses and that's just made of awesome, and I'm always wearing something purple. I'm quirky, cute, whatever. I just keep it to myself, or the only people that know this are the ones that know me way too well, and I hate showing strangers, cause they just won't get it.
Whenever people ask how to get their work published, I tell them that they need to work on marketing themselves. They will get rejected over and over and over again, but they need to try. The word "no" isn't going to be the end of the world unless you let it. If all the major publishers ignore you, there is always self-publishing, and someone will find you in this wide world and at the worst your mom will buy your book.
I never take my own advice, ever. I am petrified of rejection and would rather dole it out than take it. I will complain and complain about how nobody gets it, when I'm not even trying to find anyone who does. I will complain and complain about the job market, but I'm too afraid to try. I just want my mom to come by and purchase my novel, thank you very much.
When will I learn that it's okay to hurt, and that every scratch I imagine I'm given becomes a scar, and out of that scar I've learned something new and become a bit more real, a bit more interesting?
Whenever people ask how to get their work published, I tell them that they need to work on marketing themselves. They will get rejected over and over and over again, but they need to try. The word "no" isn't going to be the end of the world unless you let it. If all the major publishers ignore you, there is always self-publishing, and someone will find you in this wide world and at the worst your mom will buy your book.
I never take my own advice, ever. I am petrified of rejection and would rather dole it out than take it. I will complain and complain about how nobody gets it, when I'm not even trying to find anyone who does. I will complain and complain about the job market, but I'm too afraid to try. I just want my mom to come by and purchase my novel, thank you very much.
When will I learn that it's okay to hurt, and that every scratch I imagine I'm given becomes a scar, and out of that scar I've learned something new and become a bit more real, a bit more interesting?