Rejected again last night, and I didn't cry over it. I'm too busy with these other freelance distractions to cry, or feel sorry for myself for a long extended period of time, as would be my usual, and so maybe it's for the best that I am doing this, not a spare second to put away the laundry or sleep. A spare second is all I need to break down again.
Rejection gives you tough skin, it's true. But under it, where no one can see, is another matter.
Do other writers play this game? It's a game I used to like to play — and one I still play, but with hesitation, because it can hurt — involves standing before the shelf that might be yours someday. Standing at your spot in a library or, like today, a bookstore. To look at your spot, either empty or filled with another, and wonder. Sometimes I find the spot by accident, and I stand near it, hovering, realizing where I am. Other times I seek it out and when I find it there is a gap in the books, just waiting for me, saying someday maybe you'll come back.
Today I came upon it by accident. There was no room for me there. Today the spot on the shelf felt too far away to even reach out a hand and touch.
distraction no.99 