Every great writer's past is littered with rejection letters.
At least that's what I've been telling myself this month,
as I sent my first query letter off to two agents and received two very quick rejections
and zero requests to see the manuscript itself.
I can't honestly say that I expected the result to be much different,
but of course there was a little part of me holding on to the hope that this
would be an easy process...that all of the teachers and novelists I've
heard preaching persistence and perseverance and tough-skinned optimism would
be wrong, about me at least, and that my query letter would be so compelling
that agents would be flooding my email inbox with requests to read what
they knew had to be the next New York Times best-seller.
Yeah, not so much.
I was bummed, but not surprised.
And after the first time putting myself out there,
I have to say the rejections almost felt a little good.
They seem a bit like battle wounds I should be proud to sport,
proof that I can call myself a real writer now.
But I'm sure ten and twenty and fifty rejections from now,
that feeling of solidarity with my fellow writers will be long past
and those many rejections are going to begin to sting and pile up on top of me
like an enormous pile of "you'll never be good enough".
And then I'll just have to toughen up, dig myself out and keep writing.
I sent query letters to two more agents last week
and I'm patiently waiting for the "no" to arrive.
Someone get me a shovel.