Rejected

Some rejections just hurt more than others. When you've taken the time to research a journal or magazine and you just know that your work is a perfect fit. When you know that your collection of poems should have won that contest. When you spent hours, months, years working on a manuscript - that the characters are like your friends - and a publisher only reads the synopsis. I used to say that I was going to wallpaper my bathroom with all of the rejection letters I'd receive in my career. I was in my twenties then and my acceptances to rejection ratio wasn't quite what it is today - also, rejections used to come in the mail. But now, email rejections feel so much less personal, more sterile, and harsh. You can almost hear the whoosh of the sent button as another editor rejects your piece. How effortlessly that rejection email can be sent. No one has to fold it to put it in an envelope, put it in your SASE and drop it in a mailbox. Whoosh. One click. Rejected. Whoosh. One click. Dismissed. Whoosh. One click. Deleted. Most days, I can take them. Announcing from my computer, 'Got another rejection.' My wife, looking up from cooking or reading to say, 'Sorry, Love' and then continuing with her work. I log it quickly in my list of would-be publications. Date and rejection informations. But sometimes, I have to wait. Sometimes I click that email and I can't just dismiss it as quickly. Sometimes there is a sting in the rejection. A quick 'ouch' that comes with the whoosh. Sometimes, I just need to sit for a little and let it hurt before I can dust myself off and try again.