I love football, but I’m not so into it that I would sit and watch the NFL draft show on ESPN.
My husband and boys had it on. I got hooked watching the drama unfold around Notre Dame quarterback Brady Quinn. Good athlete. Strong leader. Cute guy.
He didn’t go first. Or second. Or third. Then they thought he’d go ninth. No dice. Now he’s waiting through teams that don’t need quarterbacks. Twenty-one picks have come and gone. Brady’s showed poise beyond his 22 years as he has talked to media amidst his disappointed expectations.
And it occurred to me how much this mirrors the literary world.
Hang with me, now. Teams are like publishing houses and agents, all looking to fill a specific need to fit their game plan. The college players are like a group of unpublished authors who have perfected their craft but haven’t made it to the big game yet. Each is talented, but each plays a different role, produces a certain genre, etc.
So often a very talented writer has to sit and wait while others receive contracts ahead of him, sometimes with no real explanation why that writer’s work wasn’t chosen.
While Brady Quinn waits, I can empathize just a bit. Not that I am to writing what he is to football. I have no illusions about that. But I can understand the disappointment of waiting, of not getting picked. That’s why I’m riveted to the show when normally it wouldn’t grab my attention.
I’ll watch until Quinn is drafted, until he smiles into the camera with a lucky team’s ball cap on his head and jersey in his hand.
And I’ll be thankful that no cameras watch my every move as I wait for the elusive call that finally propels me into the realm of a published author.