Not a Review of The Grey

Reviews aren’t my forte, especially not of movies. So this isn’t a review.

Instead, it’s a challenge for those of you who’ve got the stomach for it. And an education for anyone trying to tell a story that will wrench your audience’s emotions.

Go see The Grey.

Quick Thoughts on Rejections

Friend and fellow Rosemont writer Shawn Proctor posted a blog entry about the reality of rejections almost all writers must endure. Check out his blog here.

That got me thinking: I don’t imagine that many non-writers think about the heaps of rejections (usually pre-printed and written to politely say “get lost”) that most writers accumulate before finally seeing their work in print.

Writers will toil over a story for weeks, months, or years until we decide to abandon it (for it’s never really finished), then package it up and send it to a publisher, hoping that they’ll put our words in print for all to see.

And more often than not (much more often), we don’t hear anything for months. Then in the mail appears our self-addressed, stamped envelope with a rejection letter: “Thanks, but no thanks.” Like Shawn says, the supposed average is one publication of a story for every hundred times it’s submitted.

Write Like You’re Playing Guitar

This ties in to writing, I promise, so bear with me through a quick story.

Carefree me and my Takamine

When I was first learning to play guitar, I practiced constantly. I had my Takamine acoustic on a stand in the corner of my room, always at-hand, ready to play any time I had ten minutes to noodle around.

I played a lot. And 97% of it was terrible. My fingers felt like frozen sausages. My pick fell out of my hand and into the sound hole. It was dreadful.

But it didn’t bother me because it was just practice. I wasn’t performing live, and no one in their right mind expected me to play like Eric Clapton.

And only a handful of times did I record myself. And then with the sole purpose of listening for my mistakes and altering my practice to focus on the trouble spots.

But most of the time, there were no microphones. And even after the most frustrating sessions, I could pick it up the next day, after all the squawks had faded into the ether, and play with relish.

So why isn’t writing like that?