They've acknowledged my existence!

I got a rejection today. Nothing special. Just one more to chuck on the mounting pile. I don't know how many rejections I've received. There's a spreadsheet keeping track of such things somewhere on my computer.  I estimate it's less than a squillion and a lot more than I could count with my socks off.

Suffice it to say, I've been rejected a lot. Enough that I don't get sulky about it anymore, unless it's a market I had particularly high hopes for. Then I allow myself an hour or two of sullen b*tch face. You gotta feel your feelings, yo.

This morning, however, I reacted to a rejection in a wholly unexpected way. I was happy. For real. It wasn't personalized. In fact it was the formiest of form rejections. You know the type,"Dear Author…". No, I was happy, because for the first time in months and months, I got a response from one of the markets I'd submitted to.

I know publishing is a game of hurry up and wait. I know mags are understaffed, with a budget of zero dollars and all the rest. I know that as a writer, all I can do is submit my best work and hope the right person reads it at the right time.

But dang if it isn't frustrating at times.

There, I said it.

It feels like the kind of thing we're not supposed to say. Our work languishes in the slush for months on end and we're supposed to accept that with serenity and grace and never ever get impatient. Well I admit that I do get impatient. I want what I want, and I want it right now. Maybe this extended period of radio silence is meant to teach me a lesson. Maybe it already has.

That rejection letter didn't even have my name on it, yet it made me smile. Written confirmation that I'm still here. I'm still trying. I'm still a writer.