Rejection's a Bitch...

as if you didn't know. Chortle. I fear that there will be many more posts like this, but I will try to keep them upbeat or at least not too downbeat, for fear that you will stop reading (assuming you're *still* reading). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the first "Thanks, but notonyerlifesucka!" email came my way last night, not the kind of pre-bedtime reading one enjoys getting. Granted, it was from a little-known festival in Somerville that few have heard of (I just stumbled upon it this year), and more importantly, it involved my play from last year, WORKIN' PROGRESS, which is no longer working or in progress, aka is on an extended hiatus. Still, it hurts to be rebuffed, and that's what my play, and by natural extension, I was, though of course I don't know this guy Greg, nor does he know me, aside from the few pleasantries exchanged via email. I want to say I don't care, and honestly, I don't care deeply--there have been far greater losses in my life, and rejections, and hurt, and those have been both emotional and physical (read: my bloody left knee which is not bloody but still hurts a lot and remains swollen and bruised, dammitalltohellandback). Nonetheless, it would have been nice to have gotten the opportunity to work with a new director (as my last one resigned right after a show I did at ImprovBoston in Cambridge) and show my work to a new audience, and that won't happen.

What I fear, to be frank, is that this is just the first in a long list of rejections to come, and that that is disheartening, to say the least. A co-worker, Sativa, showed me the rejections of one Abraham Lincoln, and they were plenty, but I, fellow blog people, am no Abraham Lincoln, to paraphrase John Kennedy in the worst way possible. I don't want to go through many defeats to come out on the winning side. I want to win NOW! No, it's not a competition--well, actually it is--but it's not about winning but about that damn V word (not victory, people, VALIDATION)--and just about the joy of sharing my work and having it appreciated and feeling as if I deserve the self-proclaimed label "writer." God knows, none of my short stories from grad school were ever published--I'm not saying any deserved to be, but others succeeded with comparable material, I'd wager--and so it's hard to justify the classification. Yes, I write, therefore I am a writer? I could say that, but frankly, just b/c I sing in the shower doesn't make me a singer, and if I act in the privacy of my bedroom (not sayin' I do, it's a hypothetical) but am not chosen to do so on stage, I would be hard pressed to call myself an actor. One writes b/c one must, but one is a writer b/c one can. Yes, I made that up. Brilliant, no?

In the meantime, I watch my email (and boy, do I watch it) with baited breath, hoping some fool takes pity on me--no wait--hoping someone recognizes the poignancy in one of my plays, or the humor, or the je ne sais quo--and selects a piece, even if it's just for a simple reading or for a two-minute shorts festival. It would be a start, and a real motivator, just as being cast in SLAMBoston's January Slam did wonders for my self-confidence, if briefly (not to mention my resume). I had a nightmare last night about being in an impossible situation, where I couldn't communicate and couldn't succeed and was berated by my current supervisor. I can only think it was related to my fear of failure and my desperation to be heard, and hope that the dream doesn't return or come true.

One down, eight or so to go...let's hope I have better news soon. In the meantime, I'm happy to report that Boston received virtually no snow (You were wrong, Weather Bug, and I laugh in your face, ha ha!), it's nearly TGI Friday, I have a trip to NYC to look forward to after a nice weekend (and an audition, but let's not go there now), and The New Yorker awaits. And with any luck, there are no rejection emails in my inbox this evening.