The illusive path to stardom, upon which I took my first tentative step well over a decade, still till this day stretches long and far out before me—further than my eye could ever make out, always too hazy for my not-to-ingenious mind to impart a rigid firmness. It’s as if an awesome, gilded, insurmountable mountain towers over me, mocking me sans a hint of mercy; much like a real marathon does to a inveterate couch potato garbed in a newly purchased pair of jogging pants, recently inspired to get off his oversized posterior by watching on TV another marathon, the one run in Boston.
10 years, two novels and one short story later, and not one promising lead to bonafide publication. Nada, zero, strike three, four and onward, to infinity. Hell, I could post what I’ve written on the Internet—for free!—and I’m sure I’d still get no buzz. Not even a complaint, as in, Please, Mr. Wannabe-author, the Internet might be vast, but every byte should be reserved for something of interest. I’d chalk my failure it up to a lack of talent (I’m now mature and hardbitten enough to consider that possibility), but something teases me that contrary cosmic forces might be at play. Curiously queer events seem to be afoot, blocking the way for most, but not all.
10 years, two novels and one short story later, and not one promising lead to bonafide publication. Nada, zero, strike three, four and onward, to infinity. Hell, I could post what I’ve written on the Internet—for free!—and I’m sure I’d still get no buzz. Not even a complaint, as in, Please, Mr. Wannabe-author, the Internet might be vast, but every byte should be reserved for something of interest. I’d chalk my failure it up to a lack of talent (I’m now mature and hardbitten enough to consider that possibility), but something teases me that contrary cosmic forces might be at play. Curiously queer events seem to be afoot, blocking the way for most, but not all.
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