The Other 'R' Word
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First 'redundancy' and now 'rejection', numbering in excess of the fingers I can count. On both bl.ody hands.
I am learning (the hard way) that getting published is more onerous than pinning down a job in banking, and in this era of financial Armageddon, that holds some considerable weight.
Once upon a time, in a moment of whimsical aberration, a bright(ish), young twentysomething fancifully decided it would be jolly fun to join the banking clique. She’d been a long time hearing of its bountiful bonuses hanging from every gilded tree, like low hanging fruit ripe for the picking by any ambitious, industrious go-getter. So she decided to see for herself - and indeed endeavour - to 'go get' some of the tempting fruit from the Pick Your Own Garden of Financial Eden. In a surprisingly short space of time (mere months and half-dozen interviews of soul-bartering haggling), she sold her soul for membership to the Square Mile sect.
Misguidedly she assumed that having attained membership, the subsequent process of picking and eating would be as taxing as a stroll through Cloud Nine. As it turned out, the Garden was prone to long bouts of famine, tempered only with fleetingly brief periods of feasting. And even the short-lived feasting would be a time of upheaval, hungry hoards battling for morsels of the transient banquet. Membership eventually expired with little notice, her now-worthless soul flung back at her from the powers that be, having sucked it of its life blood.
So once more, the For Sale sign is being pinned to my soul. The resell value, as with a second-hand car, is well below the original untarnished version. This time, I am attempting to peddle my unworthy wares to the publishing posse, who thus far seem marginally more discerning than their banking brothers, spurning my every awkward advance.
As I battle on through my 'death by a thousand paper (rejection letter) cuts', it dawns on me that if banking has taught me one thing, it is the virtue of thick skin.
Once upon a time, in a moment of whimsical aberration, a bright(ish), young twentysomething fancifully decided it would be jolly fun to join the banking clique. She’d been a long time hearing of its bountiful bonuses hanging from every gilded tree, like low hanging fruit ripe for the picking by any ambitious, industrious go-getter. So she decided to see for herself - and indeed endeavour - to 'go get' some of the tempting fruit from the Pick Your Own Garden of Financial Eden. In a surprisingly short space of time (mere months and half-dozen interviews of soul-bartering haggling), she sold her soul for membership to the Square Mile sect.
Misguidedly she assumed that having attained membership, the subsequent process of picking and eating would be as taxing as a stroll through Cloud Nine. As it turned out, the Garden was prone to long bouts of famine, tempered only with fleetingly brief periods of feasting. And even the short-lived feasting would be a time of upheaval, hungry hoards battling for morsels of the transient banquet. Membership eventually expired with little notice, her now-worthless soul flung back at her from the powers that be, having sucked it of its life blood.
So once more, the For Sale sign is being pinned to my soul. The resell value, as with a second-hand car, is well below the original untarnished version. This time, I am attempting to peddle my unworthy wares to the publishing posse, who thus far seem marginally more discerning than their banking brothers, spurning my every awkward advance.
As I battle on through my 'death by a thousand paper (rejection letter) cuts', it dawns on me that if banking has taught me one thing, it is the virtue of thick skin.
Here Is The Writer : Mrs A
Mrs A is a soon to be ex-banker, currently on baby leave. She endured eight years in the City as a stockbroker before a timely exit to deal with matters of a maternal nature. Just as she began debating the merits of 'to return or not to return', the R word laid to rest that dilemma. Now she revels in the relative safety of being able to watch the credit crunch from the removed perspective of a civilian, while continuing to harbour her closet handbag habit. Click here to read more on her blog.
