Offsetting yesterday’s upbeat rejection, I got a form rejection today. Rejecting a story I quite liked, actually.
Sigh. This is why they (they being the published) tell you not to read anything into rejection letters. They are no more and no less than they seem. A rejection of that particular piece for that particular publication at that particular time.
Still. It blows.
Epic fail such as this leads me to examine the state of my writing. I must conclude I am:
1. Within inches of a wildly successful career involving awards I will collect like garden gnomes, OR
2. Submitting my work to the wrong publications, and I must therefore resign myself to posthumous accolades, OR
3. Not as good as I think I am
The empty shelf on my left screams #1.