I tried to get into comics initially after I graduated Clemson in

Jonathan Hickman, a teller of grand sagas and architect of universes in ink, once confessed: “I tried to get into comics initially after I graduated Clemson in 1994. I spent a year trying to get in, and I quit reading books because not getting in made me sad.” In these words lies not merely the memory of a struggling artist, but the eternal cry of every soul who has longed for a dream and found the doors closed. To long for a calling, yet to feel it withheld, is a sorrow that pierces deeply, for the dream becomes not only a desire but a mirror of identity. When it is denied, even the very love of the craft may turn bitter.

The origin of Hickman’s lament is a universal truth: that the path of creation is strewn with rejection, silence, and doubt. To seek entry into the world of comics—of any art—is to present not just skill, but the heart itself, and when that heart is refused, the wound cuts deep. So deep, in fact, that Hickman could no longer even read books, for they reminded him of the gate he could not yet pass. This is the paradox of the artist’s journey: the very thing that inspires becomes a source of pain when the dream feels unreachable.

History provides countless parallels. Consider Vincent van Gogh, who painted passionately while facing rejection and ridicule. His canvases, now worth more than gold, once brought him only scorn and loneliness. He too felt such sorrow that the very sight of success in others deepened his despair. Like Hickman, he loved the art so much that its denial became unbearable. Yet time would prove that persistence, even through anguish, can turn rejection into triumph.

Or think of J.K. Rowling, who, before Harry Potter became a legend, faced rejection from a dozen publishers. Each refusal was a heavy blow, and she nearly abandoned her manuscript. Yet she endured, and the story that once brought her grief became the story that brought joy to millions. Her journey echoes Hickman’s words: that in the season of rejection, even the love of books can bring sadness—but in perseverance, that sadness can be transformed into victory.

The deeper meaning of Hickman’s confession is this: that to love something deeply is to give it the power to wound you. Books, for him, were not mere objects—they were sacred doors into the world he longed to inhabit. When those doors remained shut, even the sight of them became painful. Yet this pain also reveals the depth of his devotion. For only those who love fiercely can feel such despair, and only those who endure through it can one day create works that matter.

The lesson, O seekers of wisdom, is that rejection is not the end but the crucible of creation. If you find yourself, like Hickman, too sorrowful even to face the thing you love, know that this grief is proof of your calling. Do not cast it away forever. Rest if you must, step back if the pain overwhelms you, but do not let the flame die. For the very sorrow that weighs you down can one day fuel the greatness of your work.

Practical wisdom follows: when you face rejection, do not despise your sadness. Let it remind you that you care deeply. Use the pause not as an end, but as a gathering of strength. Return to your craft, even if slowly, and trust that perseverance will carve open the doors that once seemed shut. For the history of creators teaches us this: that those who endure beyond their sorrow are the ones whose names are remembered.

Thus Jonathan Hickman’s confession becomes more than a personal memory—it becomes a teaching: failure is not the silence of destiny, but its preparation. To quit reading books was his moment of sorrow, but to return to them, to write them, and to create within them, was his triumph. So too must we endure, for the dreams that wound us most deeply are the very ones we were born to fulfill.