The freelance is doing well, rolling along, rolling along. I’ve signed up for another site, and submitted my first article to the editor.
She sends it back for corrections, with some gentle suggestions.
I fix and resend. She sends it back for more fixes. I fix and resend…and I wait.
Now it’s gone from a fix to feeling like failure. My brilliance is rejected, my fine words are tossed out the door like sweepings from the kitchen floor.
Part of my brain says, “Sheesh. Calm down. They saw your writing samples; they liked what they saw, or they would not have asked for more.” The rest of my brain goes into panic mode: “They hate it and are going to cause you a sleepness night on purpose, and make you wait until tomorrow to tell you what a dork reject you are.”
Never mind that I’ve sold work elsewhere, and that my food reviews are well-received. What is it about a lack of response, whether it’s from God as we understand Him (or Her) or an editor, or a friend, that turns our minds to mush and sends our emotions into a frenzy?
Maybe the fault lies with our want-it-now society. We have become so accustomed to getting information in a Google-instant, or hearing voicemail pick up automatically on the third ring, or having 500 channels of infotainment on cable (and nothing good to watch), that when someone or something doesn’t perform at speed, we get upset. Maybe we need to stop timing things to the millisecond and realize that the whole world does not operate on our stopwatch.
There are times when the idea of a slow-paced life does have its appeal. A smaller house in a smaller town, less stuff in that smaller house, fewer worries. Is that part of My Next Life? Could be, but not likely. I don’t think I could survive without my stopwatch.