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Dreams don’t die of natural causes - They’re murdered.

And worse, their killers get off scot-free.

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      Who are these murderers, these dream destroyers who are never made to pay for their crime? Sometimes they’re as anonymous as editors and sometimes they’re a little closer to home in the form of well-meaning friends or family, and sometimes they’re even closer-- sometimes they’re you.

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     In my case, the murder weapon of choice was a rejection letter. It wasn’t personal. It didn’t even know my name. So why did it wound me so fatally? Because to me, and perhaps to you, it will always be personal.

     Someone once said, if you want to be a writer, you had better develop a thick skin. Well, I’m here to tell you there is no such thing. It doesn’t matter if it’s your first or your 400th rejection; it cuts just as deeply each time.

     I have been rejected more times than I care to number and the older I got, the harder it got to keep trying. I began to wonder if I should just give up.

     I’ve been told that age doesn’t matter, that some of our great dreaming forefathers, ( such as the great poet, Robert Frost ), achieved their dreams at a ripe old age.

     But, I also know there were dreamers out there who never did make it.

     So, which one was I and how could I know? When do you finally give up or do you ever?

     It would have been easier if there was a place, a drawn line somewhere that told you, “Enough already!” But there isn’t.

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     Ask yourself, how any times can I send out my heart and soul only to have it return rejected, torn and bleeding?

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     How often can I fall into that pit of depression and self doubt before I am unable to lift myself out? How long can I climb the ladder of hope when the rungs continually snap under the weight of a sagging self esteem, before I no longer have the heart or the confidence to climb back up.

     

     Then you must ask yourself something far more important: can you live without your dream? Can you honestly never write another word?

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     I thought I could. I thought I could walk away and never look back, never do this thing that I ate, slept, breathed, loved, and lived for.

     I want you to know that I did kill my dream. I did walk away for any years, but I learned that dead dreams offer little or no peace. We can bury them and if we’re truly lucky, we won’t get haunted.

     I was haunted.

     I learned that I couldn’t live with it and I couldn’t live without it. I had tried my best and I had failed. My best just wasn’t good enough. My life, as I saw it, was half over and I was no closer to realizing my dream than I was when I started. I learned I needed help.

   

      There is help out there.

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     Some of you may be one of those extremely fortunate individuals who has a writer oran editor who knows the rules, who has traveled the road and knows all the forks, and is willing to show you. If you find such a rare and precious jewel, hold onto them and never, ever, take them for granted because whether you realize it or not, you are blessed.

     There are also a host of self-help books on how to write and how to get published. They are perhaps the easiest and least expensive method to date with the exception of the “write and send,” “hit and miss,” and “miss more than I hit system” that I was formerly utilizing.

     There are writing courses and writing schools. Both of these are tough, time-consuming, and expensive. However, they can save your sense of self-worth, your sanity and even your dreams because sometimes, what you don’t know can kill you.

     I never did find that Fairy-God-Writer and as helpful as all those, “How-to” books were, they were never able to teach me enough about “How-to” get published.

     Finally, in desperation, I turned toa writing school. After all, if you’re going to drive, you need to learn the rules of the road. I can read all the self-help books on how-to-drive-a-car that the world has to offer, but until I actually get behind the wheel, start the engine and step on the gas, I won’t really know what I’m doing.

     “Did it work?” you ask.

     I still get rejected, a lot, but at least now they know my name. Those anonymous rejection letters now come personally addressed.

     And if you’re reading this, then I guess my dream didn’t die. It was beaten half to death, but not dead.

So just maybe, yours isn’t either.