So I had two rejections today, both for short stories. Another for my novel pitch, four days ago.
For those of you who are young (you know who you are), they used to be called rejection slips in the good old days. The postman brought them to your door. They are in thick, creamy, textured, satisfyingly luxurious cards if they are standard rejections with no signature, and A4 thick creamy textured luxurious ribbed Conqueror paper if they have been typed by someone, hence with signature. Wanna see them? I have them in my museum. Nowadays rejections come by email with the heading “thank you for your…”. I don’t need to read the rest. If they liked it and want it, they won’t say “thank you”. Of course not. Why would they say “thank you”? They will start with “we are pleased to…”. There is no “slip”, no textured card to caress, no thick creamy paper to crush or to hang onto with your sweaty fist, no reality, no meaning, nothing but your iPhone screen to look at.
I woke up with this morning told me things were not going well. After a couple of paracetamols, it didn’t go away and after a couple of hours I had to wolf a meal down and pop two ibuprofens. It felt like a hangover and yet I wasn’t having a hangover.
I have been surveying
an office block in Surrey today and had to come home to sad news so not a great day. Tonight I applied to that London Book Fair Agent One to One event. I fully expect to hear nothing. That’s writing life for you. 99.999999999999999999999% rejection. This is for those who have dared to show their stuff and send it out. For those who write and leave it on their hard disk, it’s all OK. The hard disk is the soft pillow. Put your heavy head on it and don’t worry.
As a writer, am I too cool to say this: that I am very disappointed and irritated at myself for putting my stuff out, yet I feel that during the 0.000000000000000000001%* times that I had been successful, I had been truly successful, such as when I won the literary prize. Had I never ever been affirmed as a writer, I would have given up long ago. Underneath the aged grime, dirt and tarnish, the glint.
One has to look on the shiny side
The headache is gone. After the survey in Surrey, I actually found a pound on the ground. The gold disc was glinting. I couldn’t believe it. That’s, like, five ringgit! I had to ask myself, a pound or someone accepting my writing? I am not sure what is the value of my writing. Or dare I say, the worth.
* hope I got the number of decimal points right. If not, shoot me.
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photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/71380981@N06/16439868149″>Everyone Deserves a Little Portland Oregon</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>