Sometimes things just don’t go according to plan. You sow the seed, you water the plant, you ensure it gets all the sunshine and soil-y goodness it could need and you are rewarded with … well, nothing. I’ve had this happen more times than I care to remember. The most recent example was a pair of hyacinth bulbs that I tried to force. I put them in beautiful clear vases with fresh rainwater and set them beneath a grow light to get them off to a happy start. They quickly developed a promising root system, followed by green leaf tips and burgeoning hot pink buds. I anticipated beautiful, attention-grabbing blooms and the heady perfume that hyacinths are known for. But it was not to be. The blossoms fizzled before they properly opened, curling up into crinkled little flowers that reflected none of the TLC they’d been given.
The same can happen with writing. I applied for two writing retreats this year, both of which I knew to be well-regarded and competitive. Either one would offer a chance to work on my novel in progress, network with other writers, and consult with an editor and an agent. I made sure my applications were complete and sent writing samples I felt confident about. I had a good feeling that I’d get accepted by at least one of them. When the first rejection came, I was able to brush it off, and for some odd reason, it made me feel even more confident that I’d get into the other retreat. Then I received an email saying that I hadn’t been accepted to that retreat—but I had been put on the waitlist. OK, I thought. I’ll definitely get bumped up from the waiting list. And then I didn’t. The email came last week telling me that I’d been oh so close, but sorry, there was no spot for me this year.
I stomped around in a foul mood for a full day. Just as with the hyacinths, I had been so certain of a good outcome that it made the disappointment that much sharper. Eventually, though, I shook it off. For the gardener as for the writer, disappointment, discouragement, and frustrated ambitions are just a part of the process and if you can’t learn to take it—to both shake it off and grow from the experience—then you’re limiting any opportunities that may be out there waiting for you.
So I’m planting the bad bulbs outside in the backyard. They may or may not be able to soak up enough sunlight to feed the bulb and make another attempt to bloom next year, but it’s worth a shot. And I’m applying for another writers’ retreat in the hopes that I can still get a chance to meet with some other writers, polish my writing, and maybe, just maybe, find an agent.
None of this is a zero-sum game. There is always another season, another chance to succeed. But only if you have a thick skin.
This reminds me of one of my favoring sayings... "Until you ask, the answer is no." And then of course, you realize you have to ask, the answer might still be no, but it might be yes! Keep asking, keep planting!