It’s Halloween today. Though traditions involving dressing up and knocking on doors for treats have existed all over Europe for centuries, Halloween—as is today—was just an overseas echo when I was growing up in Bulgaria in the ‘90s. In Germany, where I now live, this holiday is still not official, though images of carved pumpkins are everywhere, and I’m going to a Halloween party later tonight. My take on this exported and re-imported tradition is that it’s fun, so why not?

In fact, I did once go trick-or-treating when I lived in Canada. And as mists roll over the Black Forest mountain and trees slowly shed their pretty autumn costumes, I’ve been thinking. Isn’t life just like that trick-or-treat conundrum?

Case in point: It’s early September. I’m reeling from a 30-minute rejection for a story by a short fiction magazine (trick). A week later, twelve fellow writers at Milford are telling me they couldn’t put down that same story and had very few improvements to suggest (treat). (I’ve written about this experience on the Milford SF Writers blog). Yet, that same story is still gathering multiple rejects (trick).

All of this made me go back to when I was twelve, trying to learn the concert flute. I lasted about six months until I could no longer stand my teacher’s pointed hints about how much I’m underperforming compared to her other students. She thought that would motivate me. It did the opposite, and I gave up (trick, trick, trick).

The question I’m asking here is this: How does one shield their creative seed from what comes after the innocent, spontaneous act of creation?

Until now, I’ve come to dissociate the two: Where my writing wells up from (treat) and what happens to it afterwards (trick). It’s a shield of sorts, and it works most of the time. After my experience at Milford, where my polished piece garnered appreciation while my unpolished one took home well-honed feedback, I promised to never again doubt I have what it takes to craft a good story.

I came across an article in The Marginalian about the very similar artistic struggles of Audubon (which seem to be universal to most artists with few exceptions), and there Maria Popova sums it up so well:

“In the end, every artist’s art is their coping mechanism […].”

Yes, yes, yes. When my heart thrums with the thrill of knowing I’ve caught the right words, when my being fills with the satisfaction of combining these words into a faithful mirror to the hidden story inside me—in that moment, I don’t care what happens next (treat, treat, treat).

Do we dwell on life’s tricks or treats? Life serves us what it serves, but we still decide where we direct our beliefs and focus. It’s a choice that affects the quality of our existence and the extent of our unfolding.

Don’t let the tricks trip you. Don’t let them clip your wings.