I've been spending a lot of time lately submitting out various works to agents and small presses, and I've been gathering an impressive amount of rejections. (Hell, I think I even sent my wife a query on what's for dinner, and that one got rejected, too.) Of all the rejections, though, the malodorous form rejection is the one that really stinks up my inbox. It is a reminder that you're just bothering someone and they need to swat you away with a generic letter that has all the charm of slap in the face.
For anyone trying to be a writer, rejections are an all too dismal reminder that a very small percentage of us succeed, and an even smaller percentage of us can sustain a career.
One look at this month's submissions, and part of me starts thinking about that minuscule percentage of writers that succeed, while another part of me thinks about all those writers that managed to beat the curve. Eventually I forgot about that small percentage and focus on those curve beaters. I like to think of myself as one day being a curve beater, and maybe that's why I keep on keepin' on.
Or maybe it's because I have short-term memory, and I forget about all those rejections.
Last week I got the chance to see the Grand Canyon. It was my first visit, and though I've seen it at least a hundred times in pictures--and I had a good idea of what to expect--I was still completely and totally amazed. It was like I had been transported to Ray Bradbury's Mars or Frank Herbert's Arrakis.
I've been spending a lot of time lately submitting out various works to agents and small presses, and I've been gathering an impressive amount of rejections. (Hell, I think I even sent my wife a query on what's for dinner, and that one got rejected, too.) Of all the rejections, though, the malodorous form rejection is the one that really stinks up my inbox. It is a reminder that you're just bothering someone and they need to swat you away with a generic letter that has all the charm of slap in the face.
