I’ve been collecting my rejection slips. I’m not sure why I do this, really, but at this point, there’s a stack of rejection slips pinned to a bulletin board next to the kitchen.
Some days, they really satisfy me–it makes me feel like I’m putting myself out there, taking risks! That’s the way it should be, even if I fall flat on my face a lot. Other days, it’s a miserable reminder. My husband wonders why I collect the rejection slips and threatens to discard them. “This is f*cked up!” he says, pointing to the multicolored stack of hodgepodge rejections pinned to the bulletin board in the mudroom.
The other day, I wondered what they would look like, if they were to be spread out on the floor. Hrm. So I did just that. And took a picture (sans the rejections from litmags that take online submissions–they email rejections and my irl name/email is on every single one of them–so I’ve excluded them). They add up to a small handful.
I’m still waiting to hear from a few more litmags. Some have held my piece for more than 4 months–but of course, I’m afraid to ask for status. They’re probably rejected–worse yet, rejected and forgotten. I’ve already queried a few magazines who had my piece for longer than 6 months to that very outcome: We have no record of your submission but we didn’t accept it…or You must not have gotten our rejection slip.
This happens even with online submissions–I check the online submission status and it says “received” or “in process”–but in fact, the piece had really been rejected. You’d think they’d update the database.
It’s a gorgeous pile, isn’t it?