So here it is.

I had a rollercoaster professional life last year.  Every year, actually, as any freelancer will tell you, but last year in particular.I worked on my novel (first ever to see the public), scrambled around Lost Angles like all the other screenwriters, hawking my wares and putting out the hat to see if a few coins might somehow drop in.

After a lot of work and a lot of talking and then a lot more work I very nearly jumped to the head of the line on something I helped a nice bunch of folks at a cool production company develop.

And then the bottom fell out as it is wont to do. That's the thing about the race, right? Marathon, not sprint. It's a cliche but it's true. It's so true it beats you about the neck and ankles like a freaking Aztec battle club.

 A marathon with hurdles and deadfalls. Yeah. And snipers.

BUT.

That's the game. Push push push, hope hope hope, get knocked on your ass, remove ass from floor and get moving again. 

The Great Robert Heinlein wrote something once, speaking of something else, that I have tacked, perpetually, to the corkboard above my desk and it is this:

 "Certainly the game is rigged. Don't let that stop you. If you don't bet, you can't win."

Words I've learned to live by. I don't chase The Deal anymore. I'm crap at the schmooze (too blunt and perhaps a little naive at times) so all that leaves is the work itself. It's the only control I have over a very chaotic process and therefore it's the place I have to do my absolute best. Even if it ultimately fails. And it did fail. Last year it failed quite a bit though through no direct fault of my own. 

Rollercoaster. Marathon. Wrestling. Boxing. What other image works? Hm. Oh.

Dickensian orphan standing at the window of posh upper class eatery watching the posh upperclassmen and women shovel the treats into their mouths. Drool, giant eyes filled with longing, the whole bit. That was me. Only, last year, the posh upperclassmen allowed me t come and sit at the table and actually smell the food I ultimately didn't get to eat. Brutal.

BUT. 

Out of the ashes of that defeat and very much from the Leftmost edge of my current Field of vision, a flag went up and I got a call. "Come over here and think up some neat crazy things for us. Come and do it now and we will give you money."

Not the sexiest come on I've ever had thrown at me but damned near the top, folks. Damned near. My muse is already getting dolled up  for the dance and she was pretty smoking to begin with. 

So, now, while she dances and looks volcanic as she rattles off my favorite lines from Edward Lear and James Cain, I'm sitting and thinking and aggressively dreaming with intent. Soon, very soon, I'll start to write and something will certainly come of it. 

(and that's not counting the other, equally awesome thing, that I still can't talk about).

I'm not normally a hornlower but this is very validating. Grindstone + Nose +Resilience (Pain Tolerance) = success. One way or another.

 Let the great lady sing now.