Okay, so I’ve written about rejection a lot of times. Like, a whole lotta times. But since the story I revised and returned to my wonderful editor is still deemed insufficiently engaging by her, I’m coping with rejection again. (Honestly, she gave me the option of cutting half its length, but I have officially washed my hands of the whole situation.) If I have to cope with it, I might as well post about it.
When I first got the news that my story had been declared unfit for public consumption, I cried. They were strange tears: a little frustration, a little relief (to not be dealing with that story anymore, because I felt so annoyed by it), and a large serving of humble pie. The tears startled me–I hadn’t cried over a rejection in a while, and I’d already come to terms with the inferiority of the story in question. I’m not sure I can even bring myself to submit it elsewhere.
It’s a good thing to be rejected every once in a while. It reminds me that I’m not the boss. It reminds me that I’m not the best writer or even the best writer I can be–yet. And that prods me to work on my craft a bit more. This afternoon, I checked out a stack of library books about writing (and a few not about writing). I’m planning to dig in to one tonight.
And last night, I started another story. I’ve finished a first draft and even done one revision on it. And I’m trying to feel hopeful that this one will make it to print.