Walking into the ostentatiously decorated office, I collapse into the chair without looking at my therapist. Woe was written on my face and I looked at the ceiling in despair, wringing my hands.
“So how are you today?”
A long pause.
“So tell me then why you are here.”
I sigh. Another long pause.
Finally when the silence grew too unbearable, my wretched soul began to speak and I spilled forth my haunted thoughts. “Years it took to write my novel. At times every word was a struggle. Hiding my dream from the world. Finally, it was done, but I was afraid, afraid of rejection or ridicule or that people would think I was weird for writing a book. But I persevered, fought through my fears, grew my confidence and sent my child into the world. Now . . . the rejection letters are arriving in droves.”
I continued, “I know what you are going to tell me. That it is not how many times we fall but how many times we stand up that counts. That we are only defeated when we give up _”
“I am not going to tell you any such thing. You’re delusional.”
“Listen the warm and fuzzy therapist is down the hall. She’ll hold your hand, tell you the world is going to be okay and charge you $125. I am going to tell you the truth. Every agent and editor has slush stacked on their desk a mile high and the chance your novel will be read is about nil.”
I sit up and look. Evil Editor.
“Times up that will be $150 for your reality check today.”
“Hey you’re the one that keeps coming back.”