This past Tuesday I got another rejection.
Ah, living the dream!
I’ve been reading the other stories in Wings of Change, and I am blown away. I am thrilled that my story is considered worthy to stand with all these others. Yes, I think the story is worthy of publication, else I wouldn’t have submitted it in the first place. But to stand with other stories that I read and say, “This is good”?
The title of this post says it well: EEEEEEEEEEE! I’ve never been a young teen girl before, but I imagine my excitement is somewhat analogous.
At the same time, I’m also working on other stories. Oddly enough, getting two stories in two anthologies doesn’t exactly set me up for life, financially, and I still have this need to create. And as I polish them up to a shine, I send them out into the world, hoping they find a nest in someone’s publication. And more often than not, they return to me, flustered, tired out, and hardly ready to go back into the world again.
I send them out again anyway, of course. Get out of my home! Earn a buck!
(Really, the comparison of stories to children isn’t necessarily that far off.)
But it’s such a mish-mash of emotions now. Before, it was hope and acceptance that I’ll see those stories back in my hands. Now it’s elation and hope and acceptance. For the most part, rejections don’t get me down anymore. I’ve got a nice long file full of rejections. It’s not like I’m hoping for a rejection; I’m just used to it.
But getting (another) rejection the same week that my first printed story sees the light of day? Again, such a mish-mash.
And yes. Mish-mash is a word. I’m a writer. I can decide things like that now.
Don’t be such a dinglehop.
But this is what being a writer is like, isn’t it? Pouring your blood into digital ink and then releasing the result out into the world. Finding homes for some of those literary children. For others, you never find a place for them. Acceptance for some stories; rejection for others.
I’m finding that getting a print copy of one of my stories in my hands is awfully motivating to keep going, though. So… more stories to be written. More stories to be sent out.
And maybe some hopping up and down in ecstasy as I hold this new book aloft.
Is it uncouth to sign your own work to yourself?
Asking for a friend.