I keep checking my inbox for the email that will change everything.

Everyday I get emails. Spam, submission inquiries, freelance updates, merch drops, unknown Venmo log in attempts, gay stuff that makes me wet and updates on the ongoing feud I have with a scammer who keeps changing my Netflix password and updates credit card information with an account I know nothing about; you know, everyone’s usual inbox. I always used to see these inboxes as little succubi whose burdensome existence made my life just a little bit worse. At some point in my twenties, after clearing out 27,346 unread emails and refreshing on a blank slate of annoying notifications, I saw it a little differently. When I began submitting to festivals and writing programs and job opportunities and fellowships, I would check my inbox like it was my full time job which, in all honestly, as a freelance writer with a day job and fear of never finding financial or creative fulfillment, kinda was. I would see a new notification in my app and linger with excitement wondering maybe, just maybe, my pilot was good enough and I’m getting discovered with a “you know we don’t normally do this kind of thing but you’ve got verve kid and we’re gonna champion you all the way to the top.” But as the rejection poured in and the spam piled up and the ads for gun oil and fort troff slop piled into a seemingly endless inbox, I started hoping for a simple “we’re impressed by you’re work but it’s not the right fit.”  We’re impressed. Impressive. Even if it’s not true and simply a gesture of kindness as a way to let me down easy it tickles the part of my brain that wants to be known. To be worthy in an industry I may never be a part of.

The one big writing program I wanted more than anything was the one over at Nickelodeon. A paid fellowship with a pipeline that almost guarantees jobs. I would write my sparkly new pilot that is “the big one” and my fun spec script of bobs burgers or the other two or Rick and Morty and ship it through coverfly with my artists statement as to why this queer little guy is the next big thing and can use feedback as the manure in the soil of my mind. I’d wait for that notifications round in November where other writers on Reddit see their in consideration marker switch to no placement. But mine is still inconsideration. This is it. This is the moment. I knew it. It’s all gonna change and it begins today.  A week later when I’m asleep the switch would flip and I’d receive another email impressed by my work but not impressed enough. A month later I’d receive another mailed letter with thick orange card stock reiterating the decision I’d grieved the four weeks before. A soft justification of “well then it’s just not my time” only to be dejected even further by seeing production credits from the chosen writers in a competition that caters to writers outside of the industry. This is the entry way and yet writers with story by’s on American dad and support staff writers from whatever the fuck show Nick Kroll is shitting out these days are taking opportunities they could’ve clearly gotten through an email to their agent. So what then? What’s this even for? False hope to pad the pockets of coverage sites that guarantee  you a page of feedback from the guy who made Hole In My Head 7: Another One who subsequently tells me my title isn’t creative enough.

Whats it all for? Genuinely. I don’t know. But even in this state where I feel completely outside of it all with a pit in my gut telling me it may never happen, my hope still keeps me pressed against the glass. Huffing streaks of steam and writing in the smallest and most meager handwriting you’ve ever seen “please let me in *smiley face emoticon”. So today I still check my inbox. And I still tingle with the ping of the ‘what if.’  And if it’s not today, it’s probably tomorrow.

It’s probably tomorrow.

God I fucking hope it’s tomorrow.