One of the things I am most grateful for is the ability to dream. We live in a time frame where there is more opportunity, than in any other historical period, to be anything we can envision. Today, entrepreneurs rule the world, with ideas formed in garages and built on the confident spirits of someone with the ability to pull others into their orbits of success.

No matter who we are, we all have a dream, something we are sometimes afraid to say out loud. Sometimes, dreams get buried in the subconscious and we convince ourselves that our world is comfortable and dreaming only brings disappointment. Maybe we have gone after a dream and failed, and have created a story that it’s better and safer not to risk.

The problem with this is that we continue to think everyday. The average person has 70,000 thoughts per day meaning that each minute we have more than 48 thoughts wiz through our brain. It’s an astounding feat that we can even carry on daily tasks with all this noise in our heads. Donald trump rephrases it slightly different when he said, “If you’re going to be thinking anyway, why not think big.”

Good point. Why would I waste my 70,000 thoughts a day thinking small? Goal books instruct us to have reasonable dreams, but I don’t do-like-that.

I love/hate most of my dreams because they scare the living crap out of me.

Much of the time I am excited for my dreams, and frolic towards them under a warm sun, through brilliant green fields alive with dew, as my fluffy little bunny body elongates in smiling mid-aired hop. (Well, that’s the vision I’d like to live in my head)

Then there are those “other” days . . .

When the pressure of living into the vision I want for myself seems like an exhausting feat. Especially when the things currently in view seem to beat me down with opposite opinions. “Dear author. We regret to inform you that blah blah blah . . . This is a subjective business and we know that other agents may feel otherwise.” In the beginning these letters and emails slid off my shoulder like drops of water, but as they pile up they start to feel more like sharp little icicles dead bent for a vein.

Sometimes it can feel like I’m running in place, like a rat on a wheel, getting nowhere closer to the cheese (my awesome literary agent). Naturally, the longer I run the more tired I get.

Being a writer can be strange. I sit home all day, alone, in my bathrobe, talking to people only I can hear, creating worlds that live inside my head, typing to a screen that I may have conversations with. On the awesome bunny days, I feel brilliant and the words that flow from my fingers are a magical mystery, plucked from the air and brought forth into the world by my amazingness.

On the “other” days I sit with my hands on my temples massaging the words, willing my brain to unfreeze them, watching the vertical cursor blink blink blink, judging every written word, groping through the marshmallow of my brain, thinking I may possibly be the worst writer ever. Then, because I am clearly thinking from the smart part of my brain, I compare my writing to my favorite authors and proceed to crawl away along the floor, pierced by my inadequacy to convey simple sentences. I suck, I say, first draft, I say, only first draft, I say, it sucks I say, shut-up I say, and crawl up the arm of my giant oversized couch to pout in my corner.

Yesterday for some reason, (not an excuse but perhaps the moon was involved), was a day where I felt down for not being where I wanted to be. I was tired of patience and God reminding me of persistence If my cup holds 70,000 thoughts a day, it was full at noon and spilling down the sides of my glass. I couldn’t help but feel like someone pricked me with a pin and I was collapsing into myself.

I knew my funk had reached a threshold when I found myself hating the person on the podcast I was listening to, who was talking about his literary success. I actually turned it off because I am not someone who begrudges another’s success, nor do I ever plan to be, but at that moment it was a painful reflection that I wasn’t there yet, and it stung like looking directly into the sun.

In my pathetic meandering around the house like a slug I had a brilliant notion. “I cannot be the only person to experience this. There have to be other ‘now famous’ people who were rejected a lot but kept going towards amazing success.”

As I began reading my findings to my husband something interesting happened: I suddenly began to cry so hard that I couldn’t get the words out, pausing, and not being able to continue as this deep cavern in my chest fell open and I thought, “Wow, I knew I felt blah but I didn’t realize how sad I really was.”

As I read and cried down every inch of my face, a wonderful happiness pooled in. I am not alone (which is really what all stories aim to tell). My energy shifted to the fuzzy bunny, with a sparkle in my eye, believing that the land of promised carrots was once again right across the grassy field.

Here are the seven stories that filled my heart back up. I hope they will do the same for you.

1) After 5 years of continual rejection, Agatha Christie finally lands a publishing deal. Her book sales are in excess of $2 billion with only William Shakespeare selling more. (Side note: I remember reading one of her books with a dictionary companion. That woman knows a lot of words)

2) J.K Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter novels, was rejected by 12 publishers before the 8 year old daughter of an editor demanded that her father let her read the rest of the book. The editor agreed to publish it but advised Ms. Rowlings to get a day job since she has little chance of making money in children’s books. Clearly! Her books have generated sales of 450 million.

3) The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks was turned down by 24 literary agencies before it was picked up and sold one week later for $1 million dollars.

4) After years of rejection, C.S. Lewis eventually lands a publishing deal and The Chronicles of Narnia sells over 100 million copies and is translated into over 47 languages.

5) Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Peter Rabbit, was rejected so many times she decided to self-publish 250 copies. Current sales: 45 million.

6) A rejection letter sent to William Golding said his story was, “An absurd and uninteresting fantasy which was rubbish and dull.” His novel: The Lord Of The Flies generated 15 million in sales.

7) Meg Cabot had 3 years of rejection letter under her bed in a bag that became too heavy to lift. She kept sending her manuscript out refusing to dwell on failure. The Princess Diaries sells 15 million copies.

Moral of the story: KEEP GOING! May your dreams be huge and spectacular, and scare the living crap out of you. May you pursue them boldly and with the smiles you had as children.

The only way to fail is to stop trying.

With Love,

Z :)