This may apply only to writer-types or it may apply to jilted lovers or it may well apply to every human ever but I’m talking now about about rejection. In the grand scale of the universe it means nothing and even on the scale of humanity it means very, very little but what to do, if you’re a little tiny writer, with those magazines and those journals that just don’t want anything to do with you? I keep a tally of rejections–not, I don’t think, out of any sense of lamenting one’s bruises but instead as a way of merely keeping track–and there are five or eight or ten publications out there which I keep trying but which keep saying, flatly, no.
It’s Halloween, let’s say, and I’m not talking about the houses with lights on that have run out of candy, saying Sorry, you missed us by ten minutes. I’m talking about the houses that never had their lights on at all. Five rejections, eight, ten, at each. Do I keep knocking on those doors?
Everyone: please ignore my grumblings. I know, in my heart of hearts, what the answer is. I’m just not doing it for them.
Or, alternatively: They don’t like my font. That’s it. They just hate Times New Roman.