It’s hard not to feel like a top-notch reject on a muggy Monday after a day at work when you got only a third of the things done you wanted to get done and you want chocolate ice cream but refrain and get healthier (?) fruit sorbet instead and you part the soupy air to make it home and climb up the three flights of stairs and open the door even though you drop your keys and trip over the dry-cleaning and see the open envelope on the table proclaiming your fate, which is: NO. And you thought otherwise?

Funny, I was on the subway coming home today, crammed in, backpack on my knees, a woman’s belly in my face, a man’s elbow in my neck, trying to pretend I was somewhere else, and I thought to myself about this specific rejection. It’s going to be here today, I thought. And, lo and behold, it was. I wish my bursts of psychic proclamation could come before I go through all the trouble to send in. It would save a lot of heartache, not to mention postage.


8 responses to “Reject”

  1. ARGH: Rejection.

    Just before reading your post, I was thinking about the publishing lingo: “pass.” As in agents or editors “passing” on our projects. Nice euphemism, but doesn’t change the reality!

    I remember getting my first rejections and actually feeling an inner glow: NOW, I’m officially a writer, and, NOW, I’m that much closer to getting published.

    That glow burned out long ago…Sorry to hear about your latest “pass.”


  2. Hi Nova … I agree, I wish my psychic proclamations would also come before I take certain steps. But it’s the trouble we go to, that affirms what we want in life, or rather from life… I believe that affirmation eventually becomes a reality.

    I know well what rejection is like, but keep going – give your life the highest vision.


  3. I swear, it’s some weird kind of writerly psychic ability and it NEVER works in the least heartbreaking or time saving ways. Such is our curse.


  4. What everybody said. I think of my rejections as going “ding, ding, ding.” (My latest came three at once — in the same mail.) It felt sort of like somebody was hitting the side of my head with a small hammer. My head being, of course, made out of the same material as a churchbell.


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