For the first time in my life, I am submitting in earnest to literary magazines. I have a killer submission tracker (I work on it when I'm daydreaming about being a real, honest-to-gawd author instead of actually writing or editing), a couple of pieces that I feel are ready to be seen by eyes other the kindly ones belonging to my fellow MFA-ers in workshops, and hope.
At least, I HAD hope.
It's a brutal world out there. My proudest babies are being kicked around like footballs in a world that suddenly seems full of mad elitist gatekeepers. I've always been the "glass is half-full" type, the flip-side of which involves failing to anticipate certain obvious facts of life. Example: when you increase the number of submissions, you not only increase the (slim) odds that you will be published, but likely increase as well the number of rejections you'll get back. The first several "no's" I met with a defiant smile, the next several an expression of grim resolve, the last few a slightly quivering lip.
The truth is that we're all of us staring down the long bleak tunnel of a lifetime of this rejection crap. Even the well-published, well-respected authors I am proud to know continue to receive a parade of impersonal and unexplained form letters.
Good thing writing is its own reward.
3 comments:
Raichu, I choose YOU!
All i've had is rejections for the past five weeks. It feels like I am getting jumped in an alley by an East LA gang and they especially like kicking in stomachs when you are down on the ground bleeding. oh, and when you have pissed your pants also.
xTx--thanks for the support. Someday I'll write another piece worthy of publication. Someday.
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