I’ve gotten dozens of rejections from literary journals aver the last two months. Here’s what’s fun about wholesale volume ixnays having to do with my attempts at artistry: I’m getting more gleeful with each new “thank you, no.”
Each rejection indicates at least one person tried to read my work. Each rejection is just another sign that my work is really out there in the world.
Now that I’m in the rhythm of getting those politely phrased kicks in my ego’s face, I’m kind of amused instead of slighted.
I should acknowledge that part of my glee stems from having published at least one piece as part of this process–so work submission has revealed itself as a process, full of defeat certainly, but also occasional, abrupt rays of sunshine.
My ego’s face is bruised, but also smiling. Calluses are good sometimes–they’re signs of use, which is a kind of bravery.