Rejection sucks. It comes in many forms but one of the toughest in my life has been rejection in the form of a letter. Failing an entrance exam, or not being accepted in a program, those were tough, but I was young and easily distracted. An inanimate letter...there is no option for a reply or wheedling or negotiation. No thank you.
Gingerbread! was rejected by the Artistic Committee at the TAG playhouse for a variety of reasons. I could whine and groan about it all, because I think 90% of the concerns were solvable, but that ain't gonna happen. My favourite part of the rejection letter was a possible invitation to co-direct someone else's play. I call that salt.
This is how I feel about it all
While I was moaning the wails of the nearly dead, there was also a crow caaaa-ing like nobody else in the world knew his name. He was caaaa-ing as I entered the gates of the cemetary and continued in a fairly long song until I wandered underneath him. He kept it up until I was able to snap a photo.
Luckily, he didn't drop any bombs.
Perhaps I should take that as a sign that while shit might happen, it doesn't always land where one expects and I should be grateful that there are other options available. Like finishing the play and seeing if they'll take it next year, such as shopping it around to other theatre groups and the boldest one, setting up a web site with Cheryl and selling the panto on line. That one means work of a kind I don't know how to do, so we'll have to have a beer and think of a cunning plan.
The over active mother in me doesn't like it when people leave feeling angry or upset, so here is a photo of Phoebe's 20th birthday. Steve thinks she's 16, which is a great improvement over last year when he refused to believe she wasn't 13. Sometimes, he is 6. Witness how he's NOT helping.