As time stretched on, so did an endless road marked by indefinite insights and ambiguous employment prospects. Sociology was a driven discipline she could mine and muse into given her antipathic analyses.īut, neither field ensured payoffs. Psychology was esteemed, but more empirical and clinical. She was set to study psychology, but strayed until she settled into sociology. In the fall of 2009, she started what would become a decade long degree program at Dalhousie University. Her fingers are fast and frantic, wheedling into lengthy word counts. Vera, clad in her snug sweats, doesn’t look like a writer. A profit can be procured as a ghostwriter, grunting through a grind as she grovels for coins. The respect flickers, albeit faintly, when she closes a small sale. The rationale retains her sense of respect. Her first novel was published summers ago, back when she had the heart to hope. She wonders if she’s running out of chances. Vera wants to make her mark among the medley of marginalized voices these publications profess to serve. Editors never reciprocate, because the outlets who claim to revere their readers can’t be bothered to oblige a writer. She is confident in the brands, fans, and figures. She is a loyal subscriber to many of the outlets she peruses and pitches, so she is no stranger to the prose. Vera thinks her writing-at least, selections of her writing-are perfect fits. There is no such thing as a draft or feedback, just an idea tossed back into her court as she is tasked to temper her prose for a final reading. They seem like savory second chances, but are underwritten ultimatums. Revision requests are hard to come by and even harder to work with, acknowledgements from addled editors or mods who are as indecisive as they are indulgent. Which is why every once in a blue moon, Vera nods perceptively, not happily. Just like the odd reconsideration under the condition of revisions, another level marked as a dry, directionless process. Like pleasantries, the pitches are pointless but there’s no way to skip the smiles or the small talk. The game isn’t new to her, just increasingly impossible to play. Heads turn less than eyes roll whenever she pitches. She finds herself rummaging through routine rejection letters. Vera Black walks the line as she empties her email, but in a death march kind of way.
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