Another short story rejection came today. Just one of those thin photocopied slips without even a name on it. No return address on the envelope. (And they had this story 5+ months.) Whatever.

At some point at some nameless future date when I feel more secure in my footing, I’ll put together a “No-Box” for all the rejections I’ve collected over the years. Some are flattering with typed comments and encouragement to try again, some are scrawled on my own manuscript: “No thanks” with some illegible initials from someone who is probably an unpaid intern, some are cut jagged with scissors, copied 12 to a page. I’ve sent these out personally, so I know how it is. Still, it hurts to get them. I can’t throw them out, yet I can’t stand to look at them, either. I’ll jam them all into a box, shove a rock in to weight it down, seal it up tight with duct tape, and throw it into the Hudson.

I’m looking forward to watching it sink.