My reverie was a lot of like those silly daydreams of winning the lottery. I’d come home from class one day, and find an envelope in the mailbox. Instead of a form rejection slip, the envelope would contain a Letter of Acceptance. I had no idea what such a letter would look like, but there it was. I’d dance around the room, happy as can be, floating on the thought that I’d done it! I was a published writer.
Then I’d come back to reality, face the blank page, and wonder if it really wasn’t just a pipe dream.
One day, I sold a story. I was thrilled. A contract arrived in the mail, followed by a check, and a few months later, my first published story appeared in an online magazine. It was wonderful, delightful, and very much like winning the lottery. In the back of my mind, however, I wondered if I would ever be published in one of the big genre magazines, especially Analog, which had been around since the 1930s, and in which many of my heroes had been published.
I thought that it probably wouldn’t happen. The stories published there were just too good, the competition for space too fierce. This didn’t deter me from writing, it simply provided a new form of daydream. I’d been published, and now I would close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be published by Analog, my name of the table of contents, my byline on a story in the pages of that revered (well, by me, anyway) magazine. No, I didn’t think it would happen, but it was fun to daydream about. And I kept writing.
Then, one day, I sold a story to Analog. I couldn’t believe it. I was thrilled, but I was sure it was a one-time thing. I kept writing. Analog bought more stories and articles from me. So did other magazines. So did some original anthologies.
These days, I don’t worry much about selling stories. In most cases, when I write a short story, I’m pretty sure I will sell it, eventually. But I’ve been writing longer and longer pieces. I’ve written a novella, and a first draft of a novel. My daydreams no longer deal in short fiction. I’ll tilt my head back, close my eyes, and imagine I’ve just gotten word that I’ve sold a novel. I can almost see it. I can almost imagine how exciting that would be. An entire book that I wrote, appearing in bookstores throughout the country. How cool would that be? Just thinking about it gets me giddy.
My tendency is to think that it probably won’t happen. Writing a novel is hard. Writing good novel is really hard. The competition is fierce, and there are lots and lots of good novels being published every week. Mine would just be static within the noise. On the other hand…
I never thought I’d really sell a story. And when I did, I never thought I’d sell a story to Analog. And when I did that, I never thought I’d do it again. But of course, I did. And so I no longer worry much about the self-doubt that I face as a writer, because while the doubt is always there, lingering in the shadows, waiting for a weak moment to pounce, I’ve shown myself that, despite the doubt, I’ve managed to achieve more with my writing than I thought possible. So why not a novel? Why not bestseller? Why not a life as full time writer? Ah, one can dream.
But one can also write.