I am this close [ ] to giving up.
To measure the space of what I have left could break me or keep me afloat. That space could be a millimeter of patience, or enough to keep me going until I die.
I am being cryptic.
In simpler words, I received two rejections today. One of me; one of my novel. A double whammy for the weekend.
I don’t think it’s gonna happen for me. This is reality now, not the fantasy world I so desperately want to live in.
I live here. I am not getting out of here. This is the life I am living, and it is a normal one, on the ground, with everyone else.
There is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong.
I came home to a rejection letter in the mailbox. This one to a short story. Which one, who knows, I haven’t checked yet. Anyway, it’s one of those tiny little slips, like they squeezed as many as they could onto one sheet of paper and cut it up again and again. The standard “Thank you for letting us consider your work . . . it is just not what we are looking for at this time” and signed, well, unsigned, as The Editors.
Apparently, a certain someone who shares my bed steamed open the envelope. At the bottom of the rejection note, was written:
We are slightly retarded.
Please excuse us.
Man, I was cracking up all the way upstairs. It’s the best rejection I’ve gotten in months.