Pass

My two friends from the writing conference both got ‘passes’ on their projects. I knew, intellectually, that their work was very good. I knew how tricky and subjective publishing is. I knew, logically, that the agent I connected with might very well pass on my book.

But the mind plays tricks. That won’t happen to you, it whispered.

Then I saw her name in my inbox. She would have called had she wanted to rep the book.

Her email was polite and professional. No surprise. She was lovely in person. But there it was, that sentence.

I’m going to have to pass on this.

I had not escaped the fate of my friends.

“A bunch of people passed on Harry Potter,” someone said later in the day.

I know. I know no one wanted to sign Elvis at first. But like I said, the mind is a funny organism.

“Why drive yourself crazy?” my Dad said, “Take a step back from the writing. You have a job you like.”

It was an hour later, yoga gear on and body positioned in downward dog, that it dawned on me.

A ‘pass’ is wonderful.

It is an out. It is an understandable excuse to say who needs this crap anyway? I have laundry to do and IRA investment choices to make.

But it is also a test of how much you want something, or, rather, how much something wants you.

Pass on in.