In my other writerly life, I’ve been sending out a particular short story to a few different magazines to see if they’re interested in picking it up.
I’ve been rejected roundly and completely from every last one. It is what it is, I guess. The latest rejection came in last night. I suppose I should feel more upset about this, but frankly I haven’t the emotional energy for it. I chose the path of the self-publisher years ago, for better or worse, and this short story is destined for Amazon if no one else is interested in it.
Like I said yesterday, we shouldn’t be afraid of our failures. I’ve been working to simply let go of the negative feeling that hits me when I get a rejection, to accept it and parse it and ultimately forget it. I’m more bothered by the fact that I gain nothing from a rejection apart from the nebulous knowledge that someone wasn’t interested in something I’ve written. Most are boilerplate, you understand, so it’s not as if the editor in question actually tells you what they didn’t like. Such a response is useless to me as an artist.
So it goes. I’m nothing if not pragmatic. If you’re also a writer, dear friend, I hope your own rejections don’t cut you too deeply. All we can do, of course, is simply write more stories.