With submissions, come rejections. The two go together like peas and carrots. I hate peas. Like Tom and Jerry. Like Cadbury Creme Eggs and Easter. I frickin love Cadbury Creme Eggs. What I don't love is rejection.
Oh God yes.
I was afraid, when I first started finishing things and sending them out into the world with their little bindle sticks over their shoulders, hopping boxcars out into the interwebs, that when (not if, but when) I got my first rejection it would flatten me. I was afraid that rejection would send me into a doubt spiral like that whirlpool at the end of The Little Mermaid. I was afraid of listening to The Smiths and dying my hair black and painting my fingernails black and wearing black skinny jeans. Black like the depths of my sorrow.
I'm so dark.
Mostly, I was afraid that being rejected would make me stop writing.
You know what? It wasn't that bad. What I got yesterday was a form letter rejection. I won't say the name of the press because I'm sure they are a fine organization. I have no problem with them. Are you ready to have your heart ripped out and shown to you still beating? All right, here it comes. Brace yourselves.
Thank for your submission of "Magician's Helper." Unfortunately we don't think this piece is right for [Name of Ezine] at this time.
He'll get there eventually.