The Epitome of Pride (writing exercise)

I hate the texture of unrequited love, its steel wool courseness rubbing my insides raw--
began my first attempt at a novel. A real flesh and blood novel, that came from my hands, my heart. I had finished it and was certain it was something people around the world HAD to read. My best friend, of course, saw the reality of the situation and tried to convince me that it was crap. In fact, not only was it crap, it was a "festering pile of crap." But my mind was made up. The literary community was about to reveal a "gem of a novel." I would be praised for my willingness to share my TRAGIC TALE OF HEARTBREAK.

The places we went together still stand firm, icons of what was never mind. I see his face in the spackle on my wall, the threads of my favorite sweater, the iris of my eyes. His voice still whispers to me in the silence of the night, waking me from dreams of him. Oh, that I could use that same steel wool to scour away the memories of him.

Bobbi warned me that it was over the top. She begged me to cut back on the "flowery language" and the melodramatic "woe is me" air of it all, but what would she know. I was convinced that she just didn't understand--that if she had been in my situation, as many people certainly have, it would all make sense to her. I ignored her advise and maxed out my credit card paying for the copying, binding, and mailing off of one hundred complete manuscripts, one hundred pieces of my soul. With that many copies going out, I was certain that at least one editor would fall in love with my creative masterpiece. I remained confident and positive, even as the rejection letters began pouring in.
Then I received the letter that changed it all, that announced defeat.

Dear Miss Sapstrom,
I have no words to express my complete and total distaste with this book--So I'll offer you the words of the famous Dorothy Parker:
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
Preferably into the nearest rubbish bin or fireplace.

I would advise you to reconsider your plans of becoming a novelist.

Thank you for your submission,
Jonna Feo


I called Bobbi, and I bawled and sputtered my way through the letter. I bared my devastation as I imagined my dreams splattering on the ground like a waterballoon on a searing summer day. And as best friends do, she gave me everything I needed--support, encouragement, and prayer; and in true Bobbi fashion, an aptly timed, "I told you so."