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.
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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.
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Meager, yes. Like a saltine cracker when what I really want is the chowder. But for now it's what I've got.
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