The pre-manuscript stage

Is there such a thing as too much self reflection? 

When you find yourself stuck inside a house, too tired of scrolling through Netflix without ever settling on something to watch, too unmotivated to do anything creative, and too unemployed to occupy yourself with work, that doesn’t leave much room for anything but staring at your bedroom ceiling. Thinking. Wondering. And wondering some more. 

That’s how I passed my time in isolation. I reflected on what I was actually doing with my life—where I was headed, where I wanted to be, and what I was doing to get there. Oftentimes my philosophizing would draw blanks (as philosophizing often does), and I’d be back to staring at my ceiling with no aim in sight. Sometimes, though, I’d have an answer. But sometimes the answer would be just as bad as none.

Where am I headed?

Isn’t that a question for the ages. I’ve got no idea. My third and final year at university has just begun, and I sincerely do not know if it’s prepared me for what I want out of life. Sure, I’ve read Marx and pulled my hair out trying to understand Foucault, then pulled it some more trying to remember how to spell Foucault (F-O-U-C-A-U-L-T), but what do I know about getting published?

Where do I want to be?

There are currently two things I could want out of life (career-wise, that is). In my first Ideal Scenario™, I’m a full-time author. I wake up every morning to birds singing outside my window and make a cup of tea (or have a glass of Oatly chocolate—which means I’ll either need to be living in a country that sells Oatly chocolate, or have a giant stash in my pantry). I operate on no one’s schedule but my own, and spend most of my days writing or storming up new best-seller ideas. In my second Ideal Scenario™, I see myself working as a big-time editor in a publishing company. The birds still chirp in the morning, and I still drink my tea or Oatly milk, but most of my time is dedicated to reading. I only write on occasion. 

What am I doing to get there?

I’ve written two short stories and one short film script for university, but I doubt they’ll ever see the light of day beyond those classroom walls. That’s up to me, though. Right? I could send them out, announce to the world that I’ve created—yes, created. But a paralyzing fear of rejection stops me from hitting that ‘submit’ button, every. Single. Time. I think I’ve held onto my dream of being a writer for so long, the possibility of it not happening freaks me the hell out.

Maybe that’s made me think I have a better shot at becoming an editor. It’s important I’m clear on this fact: I want to become one really bad. As boring as it sounds, nothing gets me going like reading drafts of great stories-to-be, then writing up a ten page report on what was good and what can be improved. I’m just more keen on becoming an author because I’ve secretly had that dream since pre-puberty; whereas becoming an editor has been my dream for just over a year. But since displaying my fiction writing is still too scary to me, I’ve decided to give the editor thing a go first.

But then...

Lockdown sort of uprooted my summer plans and threw them in the trash. The number of job opportunities dwindled, internships got cancelled, but I still managed to try out for two publishing placements—one right before lockdown was announced, and the other way after. Each received over 1,500 applications. Rejection letters hit my inbox both times and bruised my ego. I was stuck in a weird limbo thinking I’d never recover from the shame, and convincing myself I deserved better. So, naturally, a pretty distressing question overcame me. Has an unprecedented pandemic actually lowered my chances at finding an internship, or is it me? 

Am I stupid—no, delusional—for chasing a dream that so many others share? Is every second I put into writing, reading, learning, absolutely pointless?

Maybe I’m being too harsh on myself. In a pool that big, it’s unrealistic to think I’ll get the role on my first try. And honestly? I never know what they want from me in their applications anyway. The only ones who could tell me that are the people who look over it, and they’re not about to give the secret of success to every desperate arts student out there. This applies to getting published, too. I can’t be scared of failure when it’s the first step in the process. The only thing I can do is try and keep trying, as corny as that sounds. And since I’ve decided to be dedicated to something, it might as well be my career. 

And I’ll keep writing—even if I never show any of it to anyone. I’ll write because I enjoy it. I’ll write because I love living in worlds that aren’t my own. I’ll write because I want to. 

Ah, to be young and hopeful in a time where the world is crumbling to cinders below our feet. I can only hope I’ll be able to scale the mountain of debris when the time comes—lest I be buried under its ashes.