Welp, it's been a three rejection week -- two for short stories, one from an agent. It's part of the job when you're a fiction writer and your last name isn't Eggers, Lahiri, or Sedaris. (Note to self: look into changing name?) Knowing that rejection comes with the territory doesn't make it sting any less.
I have started getting handwritten notes with my rejections. Cold comfort, you might think, but in a writer's world, this is also known as progress. The slush pile readers at two journals asked me to send them something else in the future. Another wrote, Much to admire.
Meager, yes. Like a saltine cracker when what I really want is the chowder. But for now it's what I've got.