Castles in the sky

It is late, almost midnight, but you are not tired yet. You can not give up now. Not when you have been all day walking around the city trying to get your story published. Not when you have been working your fingers to the bone. No. You are young, young and with a dream, like countless others. However, your dream is going to become true, one day. You want to become an author, a bestselling one, if posible. You have the story, the energy, the ambition, however you lack a publisher. The reader finds you quite endearing, keep talking please.

You have tried building after building, repeating the same story, handing your manuscript to another secretary and leaving just as quickly. But you are not giving up. Not yet. You think that you have caught the readers attention, so why not use it and make them read your story. Why not see if they think that you can make it. You chose not to, you do not need it. You do not want to bore the reader. You just want their sympathy. Their affection for your suffering. They are not buying any of it, you should try a bit harder.

 You make your way home, finished for the day, but before heading up to your appartment you decide go to your mailbox to see if there are any bills. As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks, quite literally. A sensation of cripling anxiety settles in your stomach and your palms start sweating. Your mouth is dry and you feel you can not breathe properly. Everything in your mind is a complete mess and quick thoughts start travelling through your brain. You are staining the envolope with your sweat and you have been standing in the lobby for a while now, but you are not able to move. The reader would like to know what is wrong please. The letter is from a well-known publishing company to whom you sent your draft a few weeks ago, but you had forgotten about it, thinking they were never going to answer. It is probably a letter saying that they are sorry, that the story is good and you should keep trying but that it is not what they are looking for. It is certainly that. You should not even bother opening it. Even the reader tells you so.

However, against your better judgement, you start to build castles in the air. You see the reader shaking their head at your idiocy. You know you deserve it.

 You imaging opening it, the anxious feeling becoming even stronger, you feel paralised by fear and rejection, your heart beats quicker, it almost hurts and you feel like crying. A lot. You open the envolope. You open it and find the words you have been longing to hear, or lets say, read. They like your story, they compare your manuscript to the Bible and calling you the modern Shakespeare. They promise money and succes and literary recognition. You have the castle now, so you need a princess and a prince and Queens and kings to live in it, so you start imagining the Publisher in your house, congratulating you for the deal, you think about interviews and tv programs. What is a castle without a kingdom? So you fantasise about fans asking you to sign their book, receiving hundreds of letters from readers, seeing the critics loving your work. And you relish in it. You enjoy your imaginary fame. You even open a bottle of wine, to congratulate yourself. And you are happy. No longer exhausted by rejection.  Everything is perfect in your castle. Castle. You realize you have not even opened the letter. The same nauseating feeling starts again. Stronger this time. But enough is enough. But you have not reached the enough level yet you think, the reader groans, exasperated. You have not had dinner yet, so obviously you should open it with a ful stomach you reason. For better or for worse. While you are cooking, your mind wonders freely, so naturally, you start with your castles again. However, this time they are not castles, they are prisons. You imagien opening the letter and reading what you have been hearing all day. That you are not Good enough. That nobody wants to publish it. Like in any prison, you imagine the guards. You see failure, a forgotten autor, dying in shame. This prison lasts less. It is not as nice as the castles so why bother.

You have dinner, all the time the letter is in front of you. Just existing. Waiting for you to open it. Mocking you. Inviting you. Laughing at you. Haunting you.

You finish dinner and take the letter. It suddenly weights a lot. A ton. You can not hold it. It is too much. Some would say it weights like the future on your shoulders. The reader would call you dramatic and tell you to finally open it so they can finish this story. You chose to ignore their gossiping tongues.

You leave the kitchen, letter in hand and chose to open it in your studio. Then you think you would sooner open it in the balcony, feeling the fresh air. Then you realize it is past midnight and you would not see a thing outside. You want to slap yourself and honestly, the reader wants to do that too. You are going to open it in your room you finally decide.

You can feel the tension. Even the lights can feel it as they flicker. Even your feet as you make your way across the room.

Silence. The reader is nervous too. A bit bored at your antics but nervous nevertheless.

You sit on your bed. You breathe in. You breath out. You may not be a bestselling author right now but at least you know how to breath. You sit with the letter in your hands. You tore it open. You take the folded paper that it is inside. Another choked breath. You unfold it. More sweat. You start t oread it and for a momento the words are blurry and you think that you have forgotten how to read. The reader is now curious and would like to know the outcome of the letter if you please.

You are completely and utterly flabbergasted. They. Want. You. To. Write. A. Weekly. Column. About. The. Depressing. Life. Of. Aspiring. Writers. Not what you expected. Note ven remotely what you expected. But nevertheless you are static. Such  an opportunity. And in such a prestigious editorial. Your task is ironic and you laugh at yourself. The reader, happy for you, laughs at yourself too because, lets be honest, it is pretty pathetic. But it is a paying job. Your first paying job as a writer. As a columnist. And all thanks to that letter that made you stop in your tracks, quite literally.