Lottery ticket writing

We were driving home from the grocery store, my husband and I, on a road as familiar to us as the backs of our hands. Driving along the country road which parallels the railroad tracks I said, “Look honey,” glancing at the beautiful huge white barn we have passed hundreds of times, “you need a barn just like that and a paved driveway leading to it.” Seeing as our driveway is a thousand feet long and dirt and that our basement acts as his work-shop and cabinet-making business, I thought the comment a kind one. I just threw the comment out there like, you need a new pick-up or some new jeans and while I’m thinking so unrealistically how about a new table saw, Bean Boots, underwear and socks. I was just trying to let him know I knew that having a better place to work and nicer more comfortable way of getting there was on my mind. You know, being generous even though we can’t afford generous.

He says, “Well…you’ll have to sell a book first.”

Wham; there it was the reality of dreams, the futility of wishing, the emptiness of my generosity.

I was thinking, sure I’ll do that for ya honey and while I’m at it I'll go buy a lottery ticket too. At that moment I actually thought I have a better chance at winning the lottery. 

So we get home, I put away the groceries, eat lunch and rewrite the opening of my first and favorite novel which I have pitched dozens of times. I’ve gotten so many ‘thanks but no thanks’, and ‘no response means no’, that I should probably put it back in the file drawer I resurrected it from after its first round of rejections. But God-damn-it, I’m not giving up. It’s a great story, the people who have read it LOVE IT but they have no power, they just like to read a lot and write.  So I’m hanging on. Call my confidence in it futile, stupid, mindless and a waste of time but Jesus Christ Mary, you gotta believe, right? 

When I start pitching it again I’m calling the query letters my lottery tickets. 

Back to working on my next column.