Rejection

Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to deal with this anymore? I’m terrible at keeping to my resolutions….

How sad is it, that the only thing which I can vent to is an account made for me by some crazy writer. A writer who can phase through walls, because when the police investigated the break in they found no sign of forced entry anywhere in my home. I just want to scream, and rant, and shout, throwing all the things I’ve been dealing with out for everyone to see…. But there’s no on to listen to me. Not anymore. This blog’s the closest I can find to a public forum for my emotions. And if whoever made this blog in the first place doesn’t like it, well, tough. You shouldn’t have set up an account for me in the first place.

I got another rejection letter today. I've lost track of how many I've gotten now. At first I kept count, but now it's turned into a long blur of failure. Nothing new about this one; “We’re sorry, but your story was not what we are looking for at this time.” I think I may have seen every form letter made by any publishing company by this point. One would think that I’d have become desensitized to rejection. But…. I haven’t. Every manuscript I send out fills me with a glimmering of hope, that maybe this will be the one. This time, they’ll accept it. That’s all I need, just one book accepted. Each story I write, I say that it will be the one.
It never is. Every time, that spark of hope which had been building is crushed. I suppose that’s what I get for dreaming.

This means I need to start looking for a job again, since I won’t be getting any magical life altering paychecks from publishers anytime soon. That’s something I should start doing soon. But of course I won’t. I’ll wake up every morning telling myself I need to go out and find a real career, only to spend the rest of the day under the covers of my bed, lights off and windows closed, with only a book and a flashlight. Maybe inspiration will strike me and I’ll write another doomed to fail novel. Then one day I’ll realize the refrigerator is completely empty, and the loose change I get from under the couch isn’t enough to buy groceries, and once again I’ll find myself scrambling to find a burger joint which needs someone capable of smiling and basic mathematics. And so the endless cycle of my life goes on.

-Lisa