Gutted. The footballers' adjective of choice, and the one I have used most liberally in the last few weeks to describe the feeling of not quite getting through to the finals of a live comedy competition.
That is to say, getting very close, final 32 close, but falling at the final hurdle, to use another overused sporting metaphor.
That is to say, writing a lot. And for nothing, because none of it will be staged (not for this, anyhow.)
Damn this genre and its need to be produced to mean anything. At this rate, I'm going to start writing bloody poetry and publishing it on here and then you will all be very sorry indeed. (You really will. I'm terrible at poetry.)
Do I deal with losing out well? No. In this instance I bloody do not. For a number of reasons:
I worked my arse off. I had a really good script. And there was some shenanigans relating to the way it all happened that I am too disheartened to go into, but let's just say it didn't work out as I would have hoped.
So this has been disappointing.
There's something very personal about writing, and when it gets rejected, it's hard not to feel it personally. And when you're emotionally involved with your writing, this is especially the case.
And you have to be emotionally involved with writing if it's going to be any good, don't you? At least a bit. Otherwise why are you writing at all? Why bother if it doesn't have some connection, however small, however tenuous, to some important feeling or thought or moment you have or have had in your life that means something.
That's what I think anyway.
But maybe it's just about writing more funny lines, and that's where I went wrong.
And of course, if you get too emotionally involved, when stuff doeesn't work out, it feels like you've been kicked repeatedly in the kidneys, and that's not great.
And that's the good news.
Not really! There is actually some proper good news. I will write about it imminently...