With each book, I have given up. Given in to the reality of rejection. And let go. Moved on to the next one.

Again, I face that same situation. But I slip into the gap between giving up and giving in. Something desperate propels me to make another submission. To believe for one more day.

But hope is a precious commodity. And I am no longer a rich person. My soul feels threadbare. Thinned out in sections.
And I’m not sure how to begin again.

How to revise this next book and have hope of it being any different than the past two.

Maybe it’s the fear. Not of failure, but of being a fool.

Of believing in something that I never should have.

Maybe it’s the personal reverberating into the professional. Someone I anticipated in my life for decades left my life this year. Not to death, but to betrayal.

I trusted in the wrong person.

Now I doubt my ability to perceive things.

I doubt myself.

And in the midst of this, I must try to find some hidden strength. Some pocket of belief. Some crumb of hope.

I have to try again.

But I do not see the point in it yet. I just see pointlessness right now.

So how do I do it?

How do I begin again?

I dissolve into memories and dreams. I listen to songs that once mattered to me. Summoning up a time of hope and carrying it forward into the now.

I find little things and make them matter. And slowly I reconnect with the things that mean something to me.

And the belief kindles and smokes.