To Be a Writer

You say prayers before you open your e-mail account. You’ve been staring at the login for a while, trying to give yourself a reason to not check, ever since you sent that story out. It was the first story you sent, destined to be your first rejection, and you know it. You just don’t know how you’ll react.

Every positive rejection is a step in the right direction.

It’s a mantra you created though you know you’re not the first lips to utter them. Still, it stings when you read them:

“Thanks for your submission. Although we generally thought this story had merit, in the end we decided that it wouldn't be a good fit for the anthology. Unfortunately, we are going to pass on this one.”

“Thank you for your submission, but I’m afraid it’s not quite what I’m looking for. Best of luck to you in placing this elsewhere.”

“Thank you for letting us read your story. Unfortunately it is not quite right for the anthology. Good luck placing the story elsewhere!”

“Thank you for sending us your story. Although it's not the right fit, we're glad you thought of us. We wish you the best of luck placing this piece elsewhere.”

You’re grateful for the kind words. So you don’t give up. But you know you’ve missed the mark because they didn’t even critique it. And you try to quell the demon rising inside you, gnashing it’s teeth, because it wants to eat all of the words you wrote and swallow the ones that weren’t good enough. You hush the demon's rage because you know it’s more like a jigsaw puzzle. You have all the right elements. They're just not dancing in accord yet.

So you go back to the keyboard and you open your hands and you write. Because there are more stories and more characters coming alive within you and you have to get them out. And each time you tell their tales, you come closer to being the kind of writer your heart longs for, and you know it. You feel it in your blood. And you chase the dragons in your head. 

Every time you send another story out, you clench your fists, wondering how, in what new way, your words will be judged.

I don’t think that will ever go away.

But you learn that your stories are stray cats that just have to find the right homes. They’re good. And you plug away and plug away. You lose yourself in the creation of lives.

Then one day you open your e-mail and you’re reading the words and you don’t understand what they say because you’re reading them wrong. Because they don’t say “Unfortunately.” They liked your story. A lot. 

They want your story. They sent you a contract and everything. And now you’re a published author. The euphoria lasts through the night. You tell your parents, your partner, and your friends.

When dawn comes and you wake, toddling to the computer, bleary-eyed, you open a file and start all over again. You dance fingers across keys and your inner demon shouts synonyms at you for all the cliche words you first think. And life is born within you and released. And you write.

You write because you don’t know what else to do.