Alone in the Jungle

The canopy is so dense that it suffocates all light. I am slashing through the dense boscage to get to the light, but I don’t know which way to go, or if I will ever get out of the forest. This jungle feels often filled with peril, and lonely. I came to this tangle of vines, underbrush, and unknown unfamiliar territory, with a dream, a goal, a determination. I planned and still plan to reach the end of the primeval and reach the inner sanctum of a place that is not easily traversed. I am a writer, and I want to write as a career.

The road is an uphill climb, in sweltering heat, with many obstacles. Only a few reach the summit of this jungle and this mountain, and I plan on being one of the few. The challenges are significant. There are no handbooks on how to become a successful writer, or a published author.

There is no Ai, that can list a step by step process that leads to the goal, no matter how smart it is. Heck, there is no computer or electricity in the jungle to begin with. This is a journey, with the people that have the power to make you, deciding if you are permitted entry. The criteria for entry is completely subjective. Each and every person looking at a piece I have created, has their own idea of what they enjoy, and what they want to see in print. They have a list of points they want to see, and I don’t have each one’s manual.

For me that, in itself, is a challenge. My writing is extremely personal, most of the time. I constantly, have the inner turmoil of how much of myself to reveal, how much is too much. And then I also feel, that the little bits I do show, are uncomfortable for the reader. That is what writers do though. They make you uncomfortable, they open up wounds, and shed light over darkness. Yes they entrance, they make beautiful realms and wonderful stories, but life is not always beautiful. There is an ugliness that can’t be swept under a rug.

I am one of those writers. I shed pain, suffering, and experiences, good or bad, in my work, believing there are many others who have the same experiences, and want to know they are not alone.

At times, I feel that what is being printed or accepted is happy writing, or philosophical musings. There is no happiness without sadness, not light without darkness, no good without bad. It’s about balance, in my opinion. So I write, what I write, not just for myself, but to kick down doors.

I write about things that make me angry, injustice, trafficking, the insulation of criminals, of people with money and power, along with the anguish that sometimes, surfaces in my spirit.

I have some successes, and I have many failures, actually, more failures than success, but that is part of the process. In a subjective field of interpreters and readers, my subject matter is not always received with the outcome, I would like. And so I keep on, I trek the jungle of artistic expression without, letting myself get too emotional about rejection. Rejection is difficult either way. Nothing takes that away. But I want something, and I will keep going.

The issue is that, I am alone in the jungle of my own making. I endeavored to be a writer, and I alone have the responsibility and drive to get there, but I have no map.

I dropped into the tangle of this career with no map, no compass, no timeframe or timeline, and without knowing which natives to trust. I also, don’t know, if at some point I need reach out for a guide. I don’t know if a guide will take on the task of helping me navigate through the wilds.

At first, I was more than happy to write and have a piece or pieces looked at, resulting in feedback. I still love feedback. It is often the only way I know what the quality of my work is, or what needs polishing. Sometimes, something just needs to be discarded completely. I am fine with that. I welcome a good and constructive criticism. It’s the only way to grow, to improve, and to weed out the waste.

I keep my work, organized in folders. When a piece is declined a couple times, I pull it out again and read it again and again. I sometimes edit and make the piece better, after all, my skills improve with time, rejection and failure. If it doesn’t warrant my time anymore, I let the piece go and either leave it in a declined folder, or I toss it out completely.

I sometimes go back to an early poem or story, I have written and cringe. My first poems and stories, were absolutely and utterly cringe worthy. I will admit and accept that. I own it. But now, I have had more than 45 pieces of my work, of pieces of me, published. I am proud of that. By no means, do I sit on those laurels, though. I need to keep getting better, creating more and improved work. I will keep working toward the prize.

I have now, though, come to uncharted waters. I have had contracts sent to me, both for previous pieces published, and for upcoming pieces being published, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t speak the natives’ language, and I don’t want to be eaten by cannibals, or have my meager food stores, ravaged, leaving me little, or without the offering of refilling the coffers.

I am selling a product. First I have to pay my dues. That goes without say, but at what point do I need to be concerned for my own interest. At what point do I know if the small semiprecious gem I have for sale, is being offered for less than the normal fee? I am green, an inexperienced treasure hunter, in a foreign environment.

I do have some resources to speak to, for input, and I have made some countering suggestions on my current or future pieces being published, but now I wait. I was not overreaching, nor was I allowing myself to be naive, but what if, what is being published or was going to be, will now be rescinded, because the kings of the jungle don’t want to acquiesce to my charges. Do I have to fear such a thing? If that does happen, how will that make me feel? These are all new and grey areas, for me.

I have retroactive contracts that were sent to me, addressing a previous contract in years that I did not a take part in. I have never see these agreements nor have I read them. I never signed any of these and it predated my writing altogether, so how I handle that in this black hole.

When you are in an environment you know nothing about, or when you set sail without a lifejacket or lifeguard, what do you do when you reach something you are not familiar with?

In this case, at what point, is it warranted or important to have a representative, legal or otherwise. How on earth do you find an agent that will take on the mantle of being your guide in this jungle. How do I know if the maps I am being offered are on the up and up, and not going to lead me into quicksand, or worse. Resources, for those answers are not easily found. There is no drive up to order what you need, no shop, with all my options. Therein lies the difficulty of being alone or feeling alone in the jungle. I have only my own wits, my gut instincts and my resourcefulness to rely on, and that may not be enough.

The obstacles are not just the subjective selective process or being published, but the dangers of being taken off track or mislead. Adventurers are plentiful. Guides are not and have their pick of whom to lead. The frightening thing is being a new adventurer, in a strange land, with what might not be the right or sufficient equipment.

In my writing career thus far, I am beginning to feel more alone rather than less alone, and I am coming up to a fork in the path. Which path I choose could make or break the success of my journey. Do I need an agent or representation, at the negotiating table or do I wing it with the natives, that speak a language I am still learning?

Time will tell….