I got my, I don’t know, tenth rejection letter from another litmag for my short story…the same one that was a finalist in a writing contest (sorry, I’m not naming the contest to protect my identity). It is so f*cking discouraging to send sh*t out and then hit the wall each time. And here I am, plugging away at other stories in an act of blind faith and soulful desire.
The first short story I ever wrote got published by the first litmag I ever submitted to. It is a wonderful litmag, and I didn’t even know how good of a litmag it was when I submitted that short story, because well, it was the only litmag I’d ever heard of and read. I just figured, “Hey, I’ll submit THERE!”
What’s more, the editor responded within a week. And my story was published within 3 months. How’s THAT for freaky? (Now that I know better, I know it’s truly an exception case). And he wrote one of my recommendations for MFA programs (and I am convinced he got me accepted, if not on the waiting lists, of some top writing programs on the East Coast).
I knew the publication was a lucky break, and I knew I was going to face a long road of rejections for future stories. But it still totally sucks to get all the rejections. And I know I have many many more to go.
It’s times like these that I wonder what my life would be like if I just didn’t write stories anymore.
But of course, that life would be much much worse. So I’m stuck with the whole “sucks that I got rejected again” happiness.
Well. At least Autumn, my favorite season, is around the corner. Kind of. In a couple months. Yes. *sigh*