An open letter from Haja Mo to every dream‑chaser who is one setback away from giving up.
I have failed more times than I can conveniently count, and I suspect you have too. The prototype of Miles Shaw and the Temple of Jade once played like a riddle with no answer, Atlantis Protocol was waved away by a snooty acquisitions editor, and a song I loved died on the lips of a test audience. In each of those moments the universe felt like a closed door—yet what it was really handing me was a manuscript margin note: revise here, strengthen there, grow everywhere. Failure is not an indictment of talent but a first draft of triumph, an invitation to improve the part of you that is still under construction.
Perseverance is the lonely audition that never ends. It begins at dawn, when the world is quiet and the work no one sees is begging for your attention: one more sketch of a temple tile, one more rewrite of a tricky chapter, one more pass at a chorus that still won’t land. Most people audition once and go home when the director stays silent; the ones who succeed return tomorrow with better lines. The universe, whether you call it fate, providence, or quantum possibility, notices persistence even when it issues no immediate callback.
That said, trusting the universe does not mean outsourcing responsibility. I plan my projects meticulously—spreadsheets, timelines, color‑coded sticky notes—then I loosen my grip and let serendipity breathe. You cannot choreograph every coincidence or predict every market tremor, but the cosmos cannot carry a dream you refuse to lift. Do the work: outline the novel, prototype the board, rehearse the pitch. Then release the chokehold on how or when the breakthrough must arrive. Detachment is not apathy; it creates space for sudden opportunity, that investor who overhears your elevator conversation or the festival jury that discovers your short film months after you posted it.
Patience, then, is not idle waiting but active readiness. Imagine a sprinter in the blocks: muscles coiled, eyes forward, every neuron tuned to the starter’s gun. She is patient, yet utterly alive. In the creative life the gun may fire weeks, months, even years after you crouch, so you stay limber by refining the work no one has requested—because one day someone will. A melody of mine sat in a drawer for fifteen months until a director asked for “something haunting but hopeful.” It was ready only because I kept polishing it long after the applause had gone home.
Hunger fuels the furnace during these quiet stretches. It is not greed for trophies but an appetite for mastery. Feed it with daily progress—five pages drafted, ten push‑ups completed, a new chord progression discovered. Beware the empty calories of comparing yourself to highlight reels or hoarding half‑finished ideas. True hunger craves substance: skill, discipline, understanding.
Focus, meanwhile, is the magnifying glass that turns warm sunlight into fire. Choose one chief objective at a time. I refused to dabble in soundtrack work until I had finished the Cyber Zelle manuscript, and that single‑mindedness paid compound interest when the book’s success opened doors in music anyway. Aim at everything and you graze nothing; aim at one target and you pierce it—and the echo of that achievement topples the next dozen dominoes.
Hard work is the universe’s native language. Whether you speak in code, canvas, calculus, or counterpoint, sweat translates across every border of chance. When you labor diligently you broadcast a frequency that opportunity can detect. People call it luck when the signal is answered, but luck rarely visits silent channels.
Eventually there comes a day—sometimes subtle, sometimes thunderous—when alignment clicks: the publisher circles back, the prototype enthralls play‑testers, the academy nominates your song. In hindsight it will look inevitable; in real time it feels miraculous. Yet you and I know the algebra: (Failure + Perseverance + Trust + Patience + Hunger + Focus + Hard Work) multiplied by time equals success. Omit none of those variables and the product is assured.
So if your latest attempt just unraveled, congratulations: you have raw material. Mold it again. If patience feels like stagnation, remember the sprinter: coil your muscles of preparedness. If the universe seems indifferent, speak louder in its native tongue—work harder, hone sharper. I am cheering for you from my writing desk, my recording booth, my board‑game studio. Keep refining. Stay hungry. Stay focused. Trust the process. The universe is already conspiring—quietly, cleverly, wonderfully—in your favor, and when success finally arrives you will greet it not as a surprise guest but as an old friend you have been expecting all along.
