Rejection letters. I know they pave the road of a writer, but sheez. They can be so very discouraging. And man, do I ever have thin skin.
If I want any kind of success as a writer, I have to be able to take it, sigh heavily, and move on with the next submission, and the next, and the next. I’m discovering that finding the right audience for my work is tricky in and of itself; even then, once I find a place that seems the correct market, I get turned down. Not respectably turned down, just the generic “it does not meet our editorial needs at this time” that could mean my writing is trash, the article was boring, or the story was awkward. (Criminy, they even returned the cover letter.)
Another publication turned an article down for completely different reasons–the magazine no longer exists. Whoops. However, they did refer me to a similar publication to submit to. Yay, kindof. sigh Another rejection was due to length And another I haven’t heard from in nearly six months–and that’s the place that has published me before.
I always wanted to be a writer. Always. And of course, I always wrote–story after story after story (usually horse-related, being completely equine infatuated as a child…and, well, now too). I was going to be a novelist “when I grew up.” I’m grown up. And you know, I’ve made an interesting discovery in my maturing: fiction writing is not my strength (ironic, as all of my commercially published pieces have been short stories–and yes, horsey stories at that). Feature, humor, observation, anecdotal…that’s my forté. But how the hell can I be a writer doing that, when I can’t even get a single article of that nature published? Sure, I published them in my college paper years ago…but this is the real world.
I was told in my college days that I was exceptionally talented for my age (now I’m an adult, and that makes the talent less noticeable). I even won a national writing contest and a trip to D.C.–only to have the prize revoked when they discovered I wasn’t going to be a senior in college, I was a senior in college (the rules said it was open to sophomores-seniors; it wasn’t clear). That was absolutely…devastating.
So I graduate, I publish a couple more short stories, and then I go back to school. My writing “career” pauses. I begin teaching, the stories (written and otherwise) begin accumulating…hope slowly returns as I dream of maybe, just maybe, having some success publicly sharing these stories with my peers.
I haven’t been published since 1996.
Last summer, my goal was to begin writing a novel. I wrote four complete chapters and segments of others when I realized…it stunk. The second chapter was fairly good, and the first decent, but the rest…phew. I’ve given up on it, although I submitted a cropped version of the second chapter to a currently nonresponsive editor.
If I were a racehorse, I’d say I needed an easy race. Trainer Bob Baffert took a very talented colt named Captain Steve–a colt who had lost his last six races–and entered him in the Iowa Derby. This is like putting Michael Johnson in a high school track meet. Needless to say, Captain Steve won, easily. Asked why he ran the colt against such an obviously overmatched field, he said, “He needed a confidence builder.” He won a $500,000 race next out. I need an easier forum, just something to get my name and work on another’s ink and paper…
I just want to be a writer, dammit. I’m not even asking for full time–I just want to be regularly published, somewhere. I want this talent so many have told me I have being used, shared, enjoyed. Hell with the talent, I just want to write. I have horrible writer’s block now; a paralyzing criticism and sense of foreboding rest heavily on my shoulders when I try to write, dully stating that no matter how hard I try, how good I might think I am, I will never succeed as a writer. It’s a pipe dream.
I just want to be a writer, dammit.