There are days where things fall apart. I work hard to make something work only to get multiple signs from all angles that maybe I should let it go. I’ve had this happen a number of times.

For example:

Busting my buns to get to a play date, despite a broken down car, bad directions, and fussing baby who’s missed a nap—then when I arrive the kid we’re set to play with is super sick with chicken pox or something equally annoying. Yes, that’s something I’d like to know before agreeing to a play date, thanks.

Or

Doing everything I could to get a job promotion, despite failed hard drives putting together the paperwork, shady interactions with potential bosses, and staining my dress shirt right before the interview. Then when I get the job, find out it’s for less pay and more hours. Not exactly the promotion it was advertised to be.

In either case, the universe is trying to warn me against something and I’m so determined that these are just hoops to test my strength (sometimes they are), but a lot of the time it’s exactly what it is: a huge blinking caution sign.

I ran up against one of these caution signs this weekend. I absolutely can’t believe I’m going to blog about shoes, but here it goes.

When I had my son about seven years ago, I had some major nerve damage. Long story short, I had to do several months of physical therapy to re-learn how to walk (I had the ability to stand, but the signals to pick up my legs and set them back down was not activating). Maybe someday I’ll blog about it, but not today. (A year later I had to do another year of PT, for a re-occurrence of the same problem—again another blog post). During the course of the PT, my physical therapist explained that I should wear a certain type of shoe for my safety. I just don’t have the same muscle control as I did before in my legs. And I could never really walk in a heel to begin with . So I need shoes with tons of grip, wider bottom for stability, and preferably something that supports around the heel, so I don’t have to fight for balance (not a slip on, not a flip-flop, not a pump).

I got rid of my worst offenders (Good-bye Dansko). I figured I’d get by and cheat with the rest. I wore my dress shoes so infrequently, I figured I’d walk carefully and slowly and make it work.

I was born without the girl shoe obsession gene. I don’t really like to shop, especially for shoes.

Then this last year, my black dress shoes stopped cutting it. The leather has become so stretched out; it’s hard to wear. So I thought rather than buy new shoes, I’d use my Eddie Bauer gift card and buy a new dress and a new skirt. I only owned one dress before and no skirts. I swapped out my black shoes and thought I should start wearing my brown dress shoes instead. My daughter begged me to wear my new skirt around town and I did.

The black shoes are too stretched out and I’m sliding around in them. The foot bed of my sandals (which are fifteen years old) are crumbling and falling apart between my toes. And I thought I was being smart to save money by re-discovering my brown shoes, but they fell apart while I was walking around the house. No, really. They LITERALLY fell apart. I’m not mis-using the word literally. I’m not creating a hyperbole. Here is a photo of my brown Clarks shoes:

I was just walking and the rubber started crumbling. My husband is holding the shoes in these photos (in case you’re creeped out by my incredibly manly hands 🙂

Here is an angle where you can see a string of hair. Excuse me while I go sweep the floor again…

So you can see, for once, I’m not exaggerating.

Things fall apart. Stories I’ve spent months perfecting don’t sell, despite the personal rejections piling up. Plotlines lose their logic and stop making sense, the kids get sick when I have a deadline, and I settle for last minute get-togethers with friends than the planned out parties we used to throw. It’s like I’m duck tapping a plastic chair together that is not safe to sit in anyway, or scrambling to keep a paper tablecloth from blowing away in the wind. Maybe I need a new chair. Maybe the table underneath is fine. Maybe that story that won’t sell is not my best and I have to dig deeper.

I’m pretty sure the universe is trying to tell me to let the world crumble a bit. And then search the remains, because something interesting/more beneficial/more healthy always comes out of the pieces. Instead of holding on to the old things around me (keeping status quo), it’s time to take action. It’s time to go the directions I’m being pointed toward.

And it’s time to buy a new pair of shoes.

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I started watching Star Trek when I was ten. The thing is, I would have watched it sooner, only we didn’t get that channel. Once we finally moved to an area that got CBS, my life changed. Up to that point, I only had Star Wars to keep my creative mind flowing and my parents indulged me with the required Ewok stuffed animal toy I cherished until the day I lost it. Anyway, Star Trek was the show that actually stimulated my sudden appetite for reading. If it had Data on the cover then I probably read it.

The first episode I watched was the Trouble with Tribbles, from the classic Star Trek series. This was before the internet, so I didn’t know that so many people actually hated that episode, but I loved it. Those silly tribbles were so cute, I didn’t really understand the trouble with them, the more tribbles the merrier. After that first episode, I penned my first (incredibly bad, as in bada$$) fan fiction story based in the Star Trek world.  So in a way we now have Star Trek to blame for my delusions of grandeur that I might one day write fiction that sells.

About a year ago, I stopped writing non-fiction and engaged full thrusters on writing fiction and, knowing it will take years, didn’t really get too concerned when I didn’t even get a bite on my first few attempts.

The first rejection is like that first furry, darling, unexplainable tribble. “Isn’t this little guy cute! Hey, my first tribble, I mean rejection! Wonder what he’s doing here? You must have rolled into the wrong inbox.” Then you turn around and there’s ten tribbles, er rejections, none of them bothersome, just sort of amazed so many can rack up on one story and still have more opportunities out there. Then there are so many rejections you start to avoid sending the story out in fear of getting too many tribbles. You start to wonder what makes them fodder for tribble feed.

The tribbles have ruined my ability to see rejections clearly and reasonably.  The editor sends something like this:

And my brain only sees:

When I stare long enough the tribbles really mess with me and a hidden message appears:

Which is just wrong. Even the ones that are much more personal, telling me how close I was or praising the story make me feel really happy at first, until I remember it’s another tribble destined to multiply.

I think rejection letters would motivate me if they had some sort of insult attached that I could work really hard to prove wrong.  Something like:

I’ve started to panic and panic makes my imagination run wild. I see a list of reviews next to my future novels.

See what Editors are saying about Tina Smith’s work:

I’m a psychologist, so I was sure I could reframe my thinking on rejection. I wish I could think like other writers that rejection doesn’t mean I’m not awesome yet. I could be close and just need more stories out to up my chances.

But working on more stories doesn’t cure my fear of rejection. Thinking of rejections as a stepping-stone to an awesome sale doesn’t really help either. Ignoring the rejections definitely doesn’t work. Even thinking of rejections as adorable fuzzy rodent-like balls of cuddle hasn’t worked so far.

Now I finally see the trouble with tribbles, you get enough of them and they can start doing some damage. Some can even alter your self esteem by their sheer crushing volume. The problem is, it takes those balls (you know tribbles) to get anywhere worth traveling, so bring them on.

I love comments. Every time you leave a comment a poor deserving starving writer sells a story.