I touched on this in a post a few years back: “Its crucial, and extremely difficult, to tone the muscle of critical discrimination that enables you to stand firm and believe in the worth of what you’ve produced without deluding yourself or being unduly hardheaded. Striking this precarious balance is a talent useful in all aspects of life; I suspect it’s the trait we often refer to as faith or trust –- and sometimes love.”

The most important thing, as you put it, is to focus on the joy of creation.

Thanks for reading. ~Mark

In my own work, I rarely reach the point where it satisfies me, where I think, “Right, well, that one’s finally done. Time to find a publisher.” Rather, I play with it until, like a child’s toy, I set it aside for other things that interest me. Often, when I read of someone or the other who requests something like what I know is in my toybox, I’ll send it along with my compliments; “Here you are, I have no use for this anymore. If you don’t want it, no hard feelings.” Thus, the surprise and delight I feel when someone seizes upon my castoffs and even better, wants to pay me, is like finding buried treasure while exploring a beach for pretty seashells.

I guess what I’m saying is, the Gita’s got it dead on, both for you and for me. Focus on the joy of creation.

@ Alexandra: I can’t say how much I appreciate your comments. What a privilege to know that Soul Shelter counts as a “must-read” for one obviously very gifted herself with the written word. Yours and Mary’s comments plinked down into a routine, rather drab day for me, and lent it a nice little shimmer. So glad you took the time to lend your voices. (And I was glad to see that in your second comment you recanted your claim of having backed off of writing: your terrific blog is a testament to the contrary.)

@ Trent: A good – and all too often accurate – point about the dreaded slush pile, the destiny of far too many good writers who simply lack inside connections: I know a bit about that ugly fact after some stints on the masthead of a few quarterlies, and I continue the battle against a resultant cynicism. Online publication, as you say, may be an answer. Many thanks for your links!

@ Peggy: Good to hear from you as ever. Your words reminded me of T.S. Eliot’s in “Four Quartets”: “For us there is only the trying. / The rest is not our business.”

@ All: In recent years I’ve had many a conversation with fellow writers about the subject of this post, which I think is what finally gave rise to the post itself. There’s a creepily universal feeling among us: we all assumed, sort of, that having been published — having “established one’s credentials” in the form of magazine contributions, novels, critical applause, awards, etc. (we’ve all attained each) — would make getting, and staying, published easier. Or ought to anyhow. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? You do good work, you push through rejection and get recognized, and you’re allowed to do and share more good work. And yet each one of us, our firm publication histories notwithstanding, finds that the challenges confronting us have only increased. Our good work languishes in lonely rooms. Calls go unreturned, queries ignored, manuscripts rejected: and this deafness, these cold shoulders, from people we’ve already worked with. It always brings to mind Woody Allen’s line from Crimes & Misdemeanors (referring to the film industry): “It’s dog eat dog. No, it’s worse than dog eats dog, it’s dog doesn’t return other dog’s phone call.” No, it only gets harder. Ah, but we persist. Call us the Struggling Established, the Honorably Obscure, the Foolhardy Diligent. It is truly, as Frederick Busch has called it, “a dangerous profession.” But then, in the end, we remember that it isn’t a profession after all. It’s a calling. And in a calling, commitment matters more than attainment.

Every activity has a cost-benefit ratio. If a person has multiple talents, as most people do, but the person feels more satisfied or productive or successful (e.g. receives complimentary feedback) in expressing one talent compared to others, the person may choose to devote less time to the less-satisfying talents. It’s not that the person finds no inherent value in expressing those talents; just that there is only so much time, space, and money for a person to spend on developing his/her talents. A line has to be drawn, in other words.

I referred above to my lack of ambition with regard to writing, but I’ve taken it pretty far. I have screenplays, novels, a suite of sonnets, a stage musical, songs, and a one-act play to my credit (plus a year-old blog) but to ME, pursuing publication or production had less value than the actual writing. The desired outcome was not a sale, but a completed work. That said, I did – and do – want people to read what I’ve written!

It just seems to me a better use of my time/space/money to prioritize the talent (dancing) that likely has an expiration date (meaning a time at which my ability is reduced, by age or injury, to the point that expressing the talent no longer gives joy). It doesn’t mean that I’ve said “no” to any other talents, though. I’m only saying “later.”

For someone who is deeply fulfilled by writing, an external rejection may sting, but it will not render the writer less committed. The internal (and essential )”yes” is still there.

It seems to me that whether or not “yes” ever comes is irrelevant. If a thing (the writing) is worth doing, it is worth doing — regardless of future outcomes. Write because you want to write. Submit in an attempt to publish if you want to. But do not confuse the two.

Whether the response is “yes” or a “no” should be irrelevant when you sit down to write again tomorrow. If a “yes” changes your life — or if a “no” changes your life — then it seems to me that there’s something wrong. You’re not approaching the writing for its own sake, which suggests that the writing has no inherent value to you other than as a chance at getting published. It’s not, if you will, worth doing, and therefore perhaps you shouldn’t.