I’m not sure what to say. I’m sitting here, in tears, staring at an email telling me this employer won’t consider me for this job I applied for.
It was just a few hours ago that I fantasised what would life be like with this job. I’ve lost count of how many jobs I’ve submitted applications for, but out of all of them I’d taken a fancy to this one. Every day pressure keeps mounting to find a job in this expensive country, especially with my parents asking me if I’ve found anything yet. I don’t want to go back to those days when I would fuck the writing and scour through sites, like a hunted animal, applying for job after job.
I have to tell myself my worth has nothing to do with whether or not I am unemployed.
I will remind myself that I am a beautiful, talented person and that any company would be lucky to have me.
I have to stop counting the months I have left to support myself in this country.
I have to consider swallowing my pride and finding some cleaner and bar staff job, if they will even take me for not having the fucking experience.
So it’s another rejection. I should tell myself, Big deal, right? I’m a writer. Writers should get used to rejection.
That’s the problem. I’m too sensitive, too soft. I have to be harder. I have to be angrier. I have to seize the opportunities and work faster, smarter.
I have to fucking write, get my life in order, and finish this damn novel.