Well, first of all, let’s not kid ourselves. The Reykjavik Symphony can
play. These guys have some serious game. In this particular case, their talents were tragically
misapplied to an atonal nightmare of pretention, but after intermission…
They played a piece by a new composer. First, I wasn’t hearing it. I had 19
different things on my mind, but then I did, and C.J., it was magnificent. It was genius. He
built these themes, and at the beginning, it was just an intellectual exercise, which is fun
enough, I guess, but then in the fourth movement, he just let it go. I really didn’t think
I could be surprised by music anymore. I thought about all the times this guy must’ve heard that
his music was no good… I’ve got to write this guy a letter.
— The West Wing Galileo
So you’re writing a novel. Maybe it’s your first, maybe it’s your third or fifth or tenth. You’ve been rejected before. You know rejection. You and rejection are good buddies by now. All your life you’ve heard people tell you this writing thing won’t work out. It’s time to get a real job. You’ll never be good enough. But somehow you’ve found a way to keep pushing on.
Writing is a part of you. You can’t stop, even if you wanted to. So you keep going.
Then one day someone reads your work and it’s not the same this time. This person likes it. Really likes it. For this one person, you’ve changed the world.
Wasn’t it worth it? All those hours of work, all those rejections. Wasn’t it worth it, just to touch that one person?