The +/-

As I settle deeply into my bear-like cave (which is my mind! Whoa…), ready to continue my long, quasi hibernation-esque meditation, tempered with perseverance and sprinkled with a healthy garnish of doe-eyed naivety, waiting for literary agents to get back to me with either good or blegh (official term) news, it has given me the opportunity to ponder my personal framing of receiving rejection.

Rejection is a part of this game, and it’s an element that I am becoming quickly familiar with. Some might say we’re becoming bosom buddies. Others would agree. Like BFF shit. In truth, I actually prefer receiving a bonafide rejection. A lot of agencies don’t have the time or inclination to send you this formal, kind announcement, letting you know that you no longer have to hold your breath on them. Because, y’know, continual breathing tends to be a good thing…

Since being officially recognised as depressed, I’ve been going through a lot of emotional introspection and reflection whilst waiting on these potential acceptances and rejections. It’s a turbulent time to be throwing yourself out there in a creative way, opening yourself up to rejection whilst trying to deal with these other elements.

I travelled back home to try and reconnect with my roots, having an awesome time and saying goodbye far too quickly for my liking, and have dedicated many accumulated hours in pondering what I want, where I’m going, and just how to deal with certain voids I have and demons that haunt me. So, when rejection e-mails come through it’s always a conflicting feeling.

giphy

Yes, I’m grateful that I’m no longer on tenterhooks and can cut the cord with that particular agency, but at the exact same time…oh man, another rejection?

And yet, recently, in the run-up to flying away, I had become the recipient to a few more…uniquely written responses.

Spoiler: still rejections. BUT, the wording, the phrasing, the intent…I believe I had just encountered the positive/negative.

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Wipe Out.

It’s been a month to the day since I updated the blog. A lot has happened since I last tried to capture my thoughts.

First and foremost, just to get this on front street…I’ve been stamped, man. Officially marked and recognised as ‘clinically depressed.’

So, yeah…there’s that…

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It’s Not Much To Ask For, Is It?

 

Take solace in the small victories, the tiny accomplishments. Who knows what they could all add up to.

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It’s In The Blood.

I’m sad to say it, and ashamed to admit it, but there has been virtually no progress with Temporary in the time since my last blog post, Pivot – though, if you’re interested, I have been providing minor updates via my podcast, Sweet Story, Bro.

I’m acutely aware that it’s been almost a month of inaction, but it was while providing a brief update to Temporary during the intro for a future episode of my podcast that I realised I had a topic to share that I haven’t blogged about yet, and considering that Write Steve Write is the HQ for all major updates for my writing, Temporary, and, only because I love you (yeah, you, gorgeous), some travel writing, I wanted to provide a further update on what’s going on and why I have yet to shift it into gear the way I’ve been meaning to.

Hell, sticking to that analogy, I’m still obsessively checking mirrors. I haven’t even shifted into first.

So why?

I’ve not been myself recently.

You just know when something isn’t right? When something feels inhereably…wrong. Yeah, that.

Fun, right?

A few weeks ago I felt weak. Incredibly weak. Like, ‘blacking out at BJJ’ weak. ‘Couldn’t do the warm up’ weak. Something was up. So, I’ve been trying to figure out what, exactly, caused me to feel so fatigued. So drained.

It’s because of this that the past few weeks have revolved around beautiful (grey), warm (raining), British Summer days as I traipse to the Doctor’s for scans, prodding, and (multiple) blood tests.

It’s a good thing I don’t mind needles and like post-jab lollipops.

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