Owie. Three rejections in a row this week. One poem, two pieces of fiction. They were nice, encouraging, send-us-more rejections, but still. Hard on the ego. Especially right now as I’m getting ready to devote my life to writing creatively on a full-time basis. It makes you think, what am I doing? What makes me think I can do this? Who am I to step outside the accepted path, to take this risk, to think I can do this thing?
Of course, I’ve been here before. The overriding doubt is somehow both short-lived and ever-present. I tell my students all the time: Being a writer isn’t about not having doubt or fear. It’s about working despite that doubt and fear. Oh, damn. I have lots of it. So much. Every day. Every word.
I’m not the only one, am I? The only one chasing after that elusive girl in the red dress. The choosy one. The picky one. The one who will spurn me time and time again, and yet I go down on my knees for her, I undress for her, I bare my body and soul in the simple hope that this time, finally, for once and for all, she’ll say that one word I long to hear.
It’s true submission, isn’t it?
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
“It’s easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die.” ~Chuck Palahniuk.