On occassion, I'm forced to go to work. Not by force, of course, but fear of losing my cushy job. On such occassions, I sometimes engage in banter with my fellow pilot. Today was such an occassion. When forced to endure long hours at a time in a small space with a fellow human it helps to interrupt the boredom with banter. Occasionally I will mention that I'm a writer. Yesterday was such an occassion. After finishing relatively early and then resuming our trip again today, we invariably ask what the other did on their layover. Today the subject of writing came up again.
"Did you work on your book?" he asked.
"No," I responded. "I knew I wouldn't." And I did. I can look at a schedule and know, even if I have a whole day with nothing but time, depending on what city I'm in, what amenities are offered and what time of day I get there, whether I will write or not. Yesterday was such a day.
Then I explained how I was in the submission process and how rejection had become a way of life.
"Did you ever see the movie about some writer?" he asked.
Of course. The movie about some writer. How I'd longed to see it. I'd waited months, while reading all I could about the production. What actor could properly portray the writer? And how, oh how, could they make it all so real?
"No," I answered.
"You'd like it," he told me. "It was all about this writer who kept having problems getting rejected."
"Huh," I said. "Doesn't sound plausable."