Today, I received my first rejection notice.
As a writer who hopes to be published many times over, I expect this will be the first of many. But I had hoped my first foray into the no man's land of publishing houses would have proved a tad more fruitful. Some indication that I am not choosing to wither away my life at the keyboard; like a neuro-surgeon whose marathon operation is vindicated by a patient's toe wiggle.
Over the years, I have been told I am my own worst critic. If the letter I received is anything to go by, it would appear there are others far more eager to dismiss my work than I. Especially as I considered it the best piece of writing I have produced, if not in years, then ever. I loved the structure, the pace, the character development. It just felt right. If the editors had come back and asked me to adjust this sentence or that phrase, I honestly do not know if I could have.
As it was, my rejection letter took the tone of TBSS, as my work colleagues would say. (To us mere mortals, this translates as Too Bad, So Sad.)
In days of yore, I would have dissected such a letter until I found inference and innuendo in every word, punctuation mark, and space. I would have devoured it only to have it consume me from within.
These days, I am in a more comfortable place with my writing.
And so, I have decided to frame it.
It shall bear witness to my success. I will hang it in pride of place in my office to remind me: never proffer second rate work and never acquiesce to second rate opinion!
If my muse wills it and the fates keep smiling on my persistence, I hope to have my J K Rowling moment of denigrating those who dared snub my work.
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