Whine

What am I doing wrong? Is it a matter of luck? The right connections?

I am a reasonably talented writer with an excellent education and considerable (published in magazines, newspapers, online, and in a real book!) experience. I take writing classes and network at every opportunity. I scour editorial want-ads and apply myself like cheap wallpaper. We'll call this the "+" column.

The "-" column: I don't have rich or influential parents. I went to the University of Denver, a school known mainly for it's excellent hockey program and for churning out tax attorneys. Instead of interning, like all the cool kids, I alienated helpful mainstream media contacts by writing for underground, subversive 'zines and websites. Even three years with "alternative media" Borg New Times, Inc. in the absolute eye of the editorial hurricane, helped my writing career not one whit.

Pimpin' ain't easy, that's fo sho. My lovely book proposal--shopped around using bona fide tips, not blindly feeding the slush pile--is ignored more than Kathy Griffin.

Which brings me to my whine. This The Devil Wears Prada book? And, especially, Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing? Piece of shit books, made into piece of shit movies, making piece of shit writers millionaires. Any bookstore offers acres more shit books. Every magazine and newspaper you pick up reveals horrible writing, a dearth of interesting story ideas, and zero creativity.

Clearly, this is not a difficult job to do, just a difficult one to obtain.

Petulantly, I shall keep doing what I'm doing and keep fingers crossed that luck still plays some small part in becoming a successful writer, and that I'll trip over a pile of luck soon.