Ironic cruelty
Over the years, I've noticed that life offers up good fortune when you least expect it and finds ways to deliver bad news that are so crafty and cruel they are almost poetic. The latter happened to me yesterday.
Returning from the gym, I noticed two missed calls on my mobile. They were from no one I knew and judging by the number did not appear to be work related. They did, however, seem to be from two different lines at the one company. My thoughts, given what I'm trying to achieve, immediately jumped to the literary agent with whom my novel Ghost Kiss was awaiting evaluation.
Trouble was, I called one number and it was disconnected; when I called the second it just rang out (or was engaged). I wanted to look up the number on the internet (to see if it called up the agent's contact details) but I was due to be at a movie screening where I couldn't even have my phone on.
I emerged two hours later and suffered the one-hour-plus train journey home as well. Part of me was certain that the number on my phone was not the agent's number, but another, ever-optimistic bit refused to give up hope until I had done my research. I got in the door, all ready to play detective, and what did I discover on the kitchen table but a form rejection from Australian Literary Management. The irony was almost tangible, good enough to bite.
I trudged upstairs, still curious to know who the number belonged to. But my searches came to nothing – it seems likely that it was just one of those random call misdirections that seem to happen occasionally with mobile phones.
I'd say there was a lesson to learn here, except that I already know this particular lesson more intimately than I want to. So I suppose all it does is affirm the old axiom that you have to take the good with the bad.
Returning from the gym, I noticed two missed calls on my mobile. They were from no one I knew and judging by the number did not appear to be work related. They did, however, seem to be from two different lines at the one company. My thoughts, given what I'm trying to achieve, immediately jumped to the literary agent with whom my novel Ghost Kiss was awaiting evaluation.
Trouble was, I called one number and it was disconnected; when I called the second it just rang out (or was engaged). I wanted to look up the number on the internet (to see if it called up the agent's contact details) but I was due to be at a movie screening where I couldn't even have my phone on.
I emerged two hours later and suffered the one-hour-plus train journey home as well. Part of me was certain that the number on my phone was not the agent's number, but another, ever-optimistic bit refused to give up hope until I had done my research. I got in the door, all ready to play detective, and what did I discover on the kitchen table but a form rejection from Australian Literary Management. The irony was almost tangible, good enough to bite.
I trudged upstairs, still curious to know who the number belonged to. But my searches came to nothing – it seems likely that it was just one of those random call misdirections that seem to happen occasionally with mobile phones.
I'd say there was a lesson to learn here, except that I already know this particular lesson more intimately than I want to. So I suppose all it does is affirm the old axiom that you have to take the good with the bad.
posted by The Fearless Writer at 4:43 PM
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