Rejection

Pish posh, dead in the water on the first try.

No, wait...I've been here before in other ways on other days with a big rake and some hay. That's right, I know the sweet sting of rejection. I've kissed it's feet and been kicked in the face. Knocked down, drug out, and then thrown to the wolves for hungry meat.

Now, I actively seek a new kind of rejection. I seek a new kind of pain. I muddle through a new hell. I rear back on my hind legs, stand tall, and roar like a lion. I am a writer...hear me roar? That don't sound right, but it makes no sense for me to say "I am woman," because, let's face it, I'm not. I'm not a woman and can never be a woman (without extensive operations and even that is questionable).

No, the rejection I seek is of a new flavor. The rejection of the work that I spent hours endlessly honing to perfection. The work that became my blood, sweat, and tears for two months to complete, and then forced back into for several months of edits.

If you still don't know what I am talking about, I'll spell it out in plain English. In April of last year, I wrote a novel. A quirky, feel good, fast paced trip down the roads of my imagination and into the sweet by and by of novel-dom. Then, when I finished, I spent months (off and on) editting it and fixing all the millions of mistakes that I made on the first go around. I even had someone critique it for me and offer comments.

But now I am ready for query heaven. I say "heaven" and not hell because I know what's in store for me. I am prepared for it, and I have even resigned to the idea that this novel might not go anywhere. Last night, with that mindset, I fired off 4 email queries to various agents (and I'm mailing one query out by snail mail this afternoon), selling myself and my work.

Today, already, I have received my first rejection. Nice, quaint, to the point: they are not the agent for me, but opinions vary in the business so keep trying. I should be upset. I should feel like less of a person, like a failed writer drifting aimlessly towards the waterfall of endless writer query oblivion.

Instead, I am going to print that sucker and put it on my fridge. Let it stand as a reminder that I am further along than I have ever been in the process, and I am out there putting myself (and my enormous ego) on the line for what I truly love. There's something sweet about that and all the implications it carries with it.

It says that despite my previous failures, I'm ready to fail again if need be. It says that the age old fear of not being good enough is about to be tested against the litmus of trial and error. It says that if, as in the past, I just hold on that I'll make it where I want to go and be where I want to be. I've been knocked down before, but I got back up. If I get back up again, I stand to be knocked down again. But I'm malleable, shape-shifting and improvising until I find a path that works for me.

I spit in the face of rejection and trudge on. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.