This week we were hit with a massive amount of snow and ice.
I used the time to write. And to send off another query letter, and….
My manuscript was rejected within 24 hours.
Writing is supposed to fun, right? And it is. I love it. I have since I was in the fourth grade.
But man… rejection letters. This is the first one I’ve gotten in years (because it’s the first time I’ve sent queries in years), and I have to say… I’d forgotten how much they can sting. Especially since it’s difficult not to get your hopes up once you hit send.
You work hard on the query, on introducing yourself and your story and why you’re serious about becoming a writer.
And then you get a very nice letter about how they know the book is important to you, and thanking you for thinking of them, and how it is all subjective and better luck with someone else.
And I wish I could say that I’m a strong enough person that I just shrugged it off and smiled and went on with life. But I did get more than a little disappointment. Not exactly sobbing in my pillow, but there was a defeated sigh and a rather empty feeling.
But, at the same time, I also got a rush of stubbornness. I wanted to send more letters.
Feeling dejected and invigorated at the same time is… very strange to say the least.
And it all means one thing: There’s nowhere to go but forward. Either that or just… stop.
No more caring about writing. No more caring about being published.
And the thought of that, of giving up on a dream I’ve had since I was in elementary school… that is a far more defeated, hollow feeling than what came with the rejection letter.
So, I guess the choice is clear: Keep going. Keep hoping.