They said you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than getting an offer lol. So I don’t know. I’m still thinking of what I’m going to do next. It seems like in everything I do, I always fail. The only thing I didn’t fail at was a corporate job, but I hate doing that. But why do I hate that? Because it doesn’t have any creativity in it. And because there’s the petty politics and the ass kissing. That’s why I left. I like the money, though, and I was hoping I could replicate the same thing in my creative projects (or at least earn a living and not be a burden to my partner). But so far, I’m still failing. I was really tempted to just go back to corporate and suck it up, say that I tried publishing, but no one accepts me, but that feels like a double failure for me. I failed at publishing, so I’m going to be a failure as a worker for a dead-end job. And I could just see myself working on a job with a high-functioning depression and anxiety with an overconsumption problem, being angry at my partner all the time for all the stuff that doesn’t go well internally and externally. It’s a rotten way to live, and it wasn’t easy either. At least I’m fed lol. But I’m a failure. I really wanted to write, to create, because I feel like that’s what I was called to do. Stories come to me and I just have to tell them, to put them on paper. For them to be circulated, I’m not sure about that. And that’s what’s been pulling me up from my bed, to continue living, another day, another chance to tell a story. I feel like a gardener, where stories come to be as a seedling, and I grow them, and that’s it. I don’t know if they wanted to be out to the world, or if they’re happy in their little pots being seen by people who pass by them. I think what I can’t seem to escape is this capitalist hellscape. I had to sell to a market in order to get traditionally published. It had to sell, or it looks like it’s going to sell from where it was stolen from. It felt like stealing, because it’s formulaic. Nothing original is formulaic. The world said it wants creativity, but no one buys an original work because it doesn’t have tropes. Great. I will only get accepted by an agent if it’s going to sell, meaning that it has to appeal to many people. It had to please people; it had to be everybody’s cup of tea. And I’ve spent two years trying to get over that because I know it’s not good for me, only to come back because I need to eat. That’s not me anymore. I feel bad for the stories that chose me as their storyteller. How unlucky they are to have a caretaker such as me. So what do I do? I guess there’s nothing else to do but write. Write until I can no longer, until there’s nothing left to write about. But what do I need to earn an income? Maybe find a part-time job, or a gig work. Maybe as an editor or something.

Last night I received a rejection letter. I looked up why traditional publishing is so hard, then questioned my life choices.

10/15/2025