They rejected me. Twice.
Once on Monday, once yesterday (owing to my resubmission avec correct file format). And then, joy of joys, I received a third rejection first thing this morning from a different publication.
I’ve been taking all of this quite well, thank you very much. No tears, no rage, no rampant alcoholism. This is because, like I said before, I could see it coming. I was chilled when I received the form rejection; the idea of acceptance was too remote to even inspire disappointment.
Thanks for reading, Tor. Don’t sweat it. I’ll be back.
(In precisely six days, when you reopen submissions. *cackles*)
So my novella is now back in my hands. I considered submitting it along to the Book Smugglers, who just announced their new novella imprint. Or Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show (which is, in my personal opinion, an unwieldy name for a magazine). But I don’t know; neither seem like the right fit. Book Smugglers are taking on so few submissions and I’m 99% certain the novella is too dark for the Medicine Show. I just don’t feel like waiting six months for another rejection.
So, here endeth the novella saga, and here begineth the novel saga. I’m going to replot the story, write something of about 120000 words. Then chuck it out into the wilds and see if anyone bites. I’m not overly emotionally invested in this project; I just think I have a strong concept.
Maybe I should give myself a kind of public deadline. Kay. First draft done by the 31 December. That’ll be taxing as all hell. 98 days. Let’s just pretend I won’t have to rewrite the existing 34 000 words. That’ll mean 878 words a day.
No doubt I’ll post updates about my suffering. There is still the small matter of my studies, which I am fairly certain will pose something of an obstruction in the path of my writing goals. Priorities, I haz them.
I’m expecting another two rejections within the next week. One is a flash fic. It’s a really good 950 words, but I’m not going to sob myself to sleep about it, given that I wrote the piece in two hours.
The other is considerably more important.
Ergh, want so bad. As do 1300 other people. I don’t know. I’m a good writer, the brief suited me, I polished to perfection (I have an editor of note – it took eight hours of tweaking till my mom was satisfied with four pages of work), I’m experienced in submitting, I have a credible publishing record, I have more than one submission in their pile… Basically, I did what I could.
Other people, however, need to get a grip. One delightful individual on Facebook presented the publisher with the ultimatum: tell me if I made the cut or I’ll slit my wrists.
You are clearly not genuinely suicidal, as evidenced by tone and the fact your demand ends with “Thanks”. Why are you being flippant during SUICIDE PREVENTION MONTH? As someone with friends who, you know, actually cut their wrists, that comes off as a teeny bit repellant.
We all want this. Every single person who entered. You can wait a goddamn week. If you can’t, you clearly aren’t going to make it as a writer. Sorry. Them’s the breaks.