Page 73 of Script Swap
“Idowant to be here,” Fox said.“In some ways, at least.But every choice has a cost.I don’t want you to think I’m unhappy with my life.Iamhappy.Quite happy, as a matter of fact.And happier with you here too.You’re a wonderful young man, Dash.A bit wrapped up in yourself sometimes—” Fox smiled to take the sting out of the words.“—but that’s the artistic temperament.You’ve made so many people happy.You’re a wonderful partner to Bobby.Millie and Indira treasure your friendship.And you’ve given Keme the greatest gift of all: someone he can bully for the rest of his life.And we want you to be happy too.”
I nodded.The van’s heater was still doing its best to drive back the cold, and as I dried, my wet clothes began to itch.A part of me knew I should get home, change, talk to Bobby.But I didn’t.
“What’s going on?”Fox asked quietly.
“Nothing,” I said.“I mean, aside from the fact that I’m apparently a total nutcase.”When Fox didn’t take the bait, I found myself talking again.“You know about the rejections?”
“I was given to understand thatA Work in Progressdidn’t find representation.”
“That’s putting it lightly.I tried every agent in the book—pretty much literally, although it’s a website now.”
“And?”
“And?Fox, that’s it.That’s the end.”
“Maybe for that book.Write another.”
“But I can’t.I could barely write this one.And there’s no guarantee that the next one is going to be any better.”
“So?”
“So, the same thing will happen.I’ll write it.I’ll spend years of my life invested in it.And then I’ll send it out, and it’ll get rejected, and I’ll be right back where I started: facing the fact that I’m not a good writer, and that I’m a failure, and that I’m wasting my time.”
“I have quite a few paintings that haven’t sold.Would you say they’re not any good?”I opened my mouth, but Fox said, “A better question: I understand that there are any number of famous books that were rejected by publishing houses before finally finding an audience.Would you say those authors were failures?That they weren’t any good?”
“No, but that’s because theydidfind an audience.”
“What about books that aren’t published during an author’s lifetime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Writers who lived their whole lives thinking they were failures, only for someone to discover their work after they died?Were they not talented?Were they wasting their time?Emily Dickinson springs to mind.The one who wrote that Pulitzer Prize-winner, the book about the hot dogs.And I’m sure there are others.”
“Okay, but that’s—”
“Yes or no, Dash.”
“No, but that’s not helpful.I mean, what’s your point?That maybe I’ll be famous after I die?That’s not super encouraging.”
“I’m not trying to be encouraging.I’m trying to show you that having a book be published—having a book be a success—involves a great many factors, most of which are outside your control, and few of which have any actual connection to the quality of the book itself.”
“Yeah, I know that.But—”
I barely managed to stop myself in time.
Fox, however, quirked a tiny smile.“But it’s different for you?Unlike the rest of the world, you are special.These agents or publishers or whoever looked at your work, they had some unique, specific insight into how terrible you are as a writer, and that’s why they passed on it—not because they had offered to represent something similar, or not because they didn’t know how to sell it, or not because they had indigestion after a bad lunch.”
What was I supposed to say to that?
Teenage Dash chose that moment to stick his head out and offer a sullen “I don’t know.”
Fox actually laughed.“I’m not saying that rejections aren’t tough on the ego.But Dash, is that why you started writing?To have your ego stroked?”
“No.Obviously.”
“Then why?Writing is hard.All art is hard, but writing is particularly difficult.You’ve spent, as you put it, your whole life trying to become a writer.Is it because your parents forced you to?Because you’re desperate to please them?Because you have no mind of your own, and you’re incapable of making decisions for yourself because you’re an overgrown man-child without a spine?”
“No,” I said tightly.“Thank you for asking.”
