Rejection tastes like burnt chocolate. I figured I’d be devastated. I’m not. So, you don’t like my writing. So, you think that I have nothing to share and no talent to share it. You might be right but fuck if I care. “You’re not good enough to play on this court, son. There’s the kid’s court over there, take your short shorts with you. Now get.” You have no idea what those words do to me. You expect me to crawl up in a corner and roll myself into a small ball. But I’m not one of those people. I don’t believe in corners and I don’t believe in balls.

Here’s the story: I shared this website with a friend at work whose opinion and intelligence I respect. While speaking with a mutual friend today, I mentioned, in passing, that I had to write tonight. He made a face. He figured I’d already spoken to our mutual friend about my writing, which I had, in a way, since weeks had passed and she never commented on it. I’ll call her tomorrow to find out the details, but the gist of it, according to him, was that she was glad I was a talented lawyer. This is all hearsay but probably accurate hearsay. Still, I’ll wait until the horse speaks.

On a happier note, Doolies finally turned the corner on this writing thing. While she’s not ready to support me financially—she claims I’d become a house rodent, not working and wandering around bored—she has been talking more openly about her thoughts on my writing and actually encouraging me to write. I really appreciate that. I know I suck but I also know I’m working toward something in me that tingles from the point of my head to the trim of my big toenail.