Today I received Rejection Letter Numero Quatre. (That’s Number Four, my American friends). What makes this rejection different from the three before it? It’s personalized. It’s specific. And it’s encouraging. Hobo Camp Review respectfully declined the opportunity to publish my short story, Lake Placid Rustic Café. That encouraged me to change the title and spend two hours re-writing it. It also reminded me I have potential as a writer, so long as I keep writing.
The Hubs and I enjoyed a sunny, childless, writing-less weekend in Cannes (despite the fact we picked up a stomach bug that had us fighting over the bathroom for the duration of Saturday night). While everything (other than the constant puking) was beautiful, I was sad to separate from my novel. Look, I’ve been writing since I could pick up a pencil. I have always enjoyed the craft of narration. It’s my calling. But this is the first time I can remember feeling
physically sick glum that I wasn’t writing. It’s not that I missed my plot (always alive in my mind), but I know myself, and I know laziness begets laziness.
Truth be told, if it weren’t for my rejection from the hobos, I probably would have taken today as a recovery day (I did eject my entire insides in a twelve hour period, after all). Believe me, it wasn’t easy to face my keyboard. But I did manage to add 600 words to my novel, not to mention the serious revision to my short story, and its subsequent resubmission to a different literary magazine, one a little closer to home. And let’s not belittle this here blog post. Which brings me to my original theory: Rejection fuels me.
I wish I had more to say than that, but alas, I’m out of words. Also, I just remembered that I recorded the mid-season premier of The Walking Dead on Slingbox last night, and I’ve got priorities, people. Me and Zombies, perfect together like peanut butter and chocolate.