Without A Net

     There is a certain kind of gluttonous insanity to writing. We fill up blank pages with little bits of ourselves, laying them out on the torture tables of opinion and professional dissection. We write because the words strain at the interior of our skulls, fighting for release into the world. The stories will not be denied. They riot like the Cockney/French insanity of Les Mis. Yes, Gavroche, I hear you singing! Now, shut up and let me finish my blog. Geesh! We write and hold on to the whipping post, preparing our backs for the flaying we know must come for the writing to improve. 

     We soothe ourselves with the gentle salve of our friends praise. Their intentions override their taste and they rave about our wonderful talent. Our belief that we are that good rises like a balloon too daunting for a toddlers grip. Not to worry, it is swiftly pummeled down by our editors, proofreaders, and the multitude of rejection letters in our inboxes. 

     The worst of these letters are the form returns. You are not even good enough for me to waste my time responding to you. Continue flipping burgers and bother me no more. Of course, this isn't the actual meaning most of the time. Keep repeating that to yourself. The fact is, I would rather see red ink. I would rather someone tell me what they did not like than to shoo me away. I cannot improve on the unknown need.  

     So we climb to the heights of the big top. We step out on the platform, compelled. The bar swings toward us and we fly through the air, pitching, querying, hoping... Without a net. Here's hoping that we all find an agent or publishing house willing to catch us before we flip.