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.
