You cannot collect the rejection slips, unless you send in your work.
—Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)
Nothing will come of it. We know this; and we do it anyway. I have sent in the Larghetto (second movement) and Vivo assai (third movement) of the Op.143 to two separate calls for orchestral scores.
Why?
If I think, Nothing will come of it, so it is not worth even bothering, then the thought is bitter in its binding my hands into inaction.
But if I send, even though I think, Nothing will come of it, I affirm that I believe my work worthy of the consideration; at least in theory, I give an actual person the chance to review the work (and dare him or her to reject it); and my knowledge that Nothing will come of it inoculates me from the bitterer forms of disappointment.
Nothing will come of it. We know this. But I do excellent work. And someday, it will be recognized for its excellence.
Why?
If I think, Nothing will come of it, so it is not worth even bothering, then the thought is bitter in its binding my hands into inaction.
But if I send, even though I think, Nothing will come of it, I affirm that I believe my work worthy of the consideration; at least in theory, I give an actual person the chance to review the work (and dare him or her to reject it); and my knowledge that Nothing will come of it inoculates me from the bitterer forms of disappointment.
Nothing will come of it. We know this. But I do excellent work. And someday, it will be recognized for its excellence.
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