With a real rejection letter to my name, I decided it was time to take my writing dreams seriously. My husband encouraged me to take one of those "writing courses" that were advertised through the mail--we didn't have a computer or internet back then. They charged what seemed like a pretty high fee, but guaranteed if you didn't make it back by the time you finished they'd refund it in full.
We set my "office" up in the spare bedroom, and even bought a "word-processor" for me to use--a sort of glorified type-writer. I'd hide up there in the evenings after I'd got the son to bed. Then we had another son... I'd hide up there in the evenings after I'd got two sons to bed. Then we had...
I tried. Really, I tried. I sent submissions all over the place--to magazines, to publishers, to agents... I did my homework and sent it to my "teacher." I took the kids to school. I helped in class. And I never finished the course, so we never got our money back, though by then I'd realized I was never going to earn it by getting published either. They probably ran the teaching business on fees from people like me.
Of course, I really wouldn't have given up--that's what I tell myself--except we left the country and moved to the States, but that's another story.