Yep, it’s that time of year again. The winds of rejection are blowing, last week right at me.
There are the slips, the ones smaller than your hand that fly out of the envelope when torn open. The ones so flimsy they drift, because you let them, deep into the unknowable caverns under the couch. Some envelopes contain beheaded stories—first page shorn off and stuffed in. And sometimes there’s that scrawl on the bottom. Advice. Or thanks for trying us. Or meaningless drivel I can’t decipher. My favorite scrawl of the summer (e: yes, I found the rejection hidden on the shelf) was the one that said my story was passed around to the editors, asking me to try another story with them; standard slip encouragement. What I liked was this choice line: “You’re good,” it said, causing me to blush, maybe, just a little, except that between the lines what it really says is: “You’re good but not good enough.”
I’m not too bothered by it. And I’m not too bothered by the other two unsigned and unscrawled rejections, not one bit.
What I am is detached. I’m looking on from far away. A spectator in the stands, high up in the nosebleeds… I don’t feel much of anything except the spins.
Meanwhile my time is otherwise occupied. So many writing projects at once! And some I don’t want to be doing!
I pay no attention to the world around me and I also slouch, so I guess it’s fitting. Plus, I’m very partial to red shoes.