Last year, I finally started writing fiction.

It’s been a dream of mine for decades.

“If I can write decent non-fiction, why can’t I write fiction?”

I tried many times. Failed every time.

It was awful, what I wrote. Painful to read. Embarrassing.

At some point I decided that I wasn’t talented enough for fiction. Fiction was simply not my thing. I should stick to what I do best. Interviews. Research. True stories… Non-fiction.

And then when I had completely given up, all of a sudden something clicked.

Last year, I began to write stories without giving it much thought.

They were just pouring out.

And when I looked at them, I thought:

“This isn’t terrible. This might even be quite good.”

So I’ve already written 7 stories and 11 flash fiction pieces.

Plus, I started a writing routine that allows me to write consistently, despite all the other commitments I have. I’ve got tons of ideas. People I’ve met, experiences I’ve had… Turns out, at 45, you’ve lived a life, and it’s a great source of material.

I’m confident that I will have a story collection by the end of this year.

Question is: is it REALLY any good?

The only way to find out is to get these stories published in somewhat prestigious literary magazines.

I know nothing of this world. It has its quirks. But many magazines are open to submissions from anyone. I imagine the competition must be insane but still, I’ve decided to submit one story every week to whatever magazine ChatGPT finds is the best fit.

And in order to overcome my fear of rejection, I’m reframing my goal. Instead of “get 7 stories published” - “collect 50 rejections.”

I don’t control what the editors think of my stories.

I only control what I write - and the process of clicking the “submit” button.

If I get rejected 50 times, I’ll reach my goal. And it will be weirdly satisfying. So I win either way.