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Since I don't know how to knit and refuse to learn because I've seen someone jabbed by a knitting needle (it's not as harmless as one would think), I persevere with my writing. Two weeks ago, I received a rejection for another work Bound by Blood. Feeling sorry for myself, I went off to into my quagmire of doubt and self-pity for a bit. And because I like to depress myself, I opened up the database where I keep track of my queries to find the fifty-seven rejections I have for Sultana. That's right, fifty-seven rejections racked up between agents and publishers. Some writers might be awed by that number, others would say when I've racked up a hundred rejections, then it's time to re-evaluate. I have no clue how to evaluate the number, but I can pinpoint a few that have dented, dinged and chipped my writing soul.
Then today, I stumbled on a blog that asked a wonderful question; for those of you born to write, do you also believe you were born to be published? I've blogged about the joy of writing and I can even recall when I decided, more than four years ago, that the joy of writing had morphed into a real goal of publication. There's a huge difference between wanting to write and wanting to be widely read and receive criticism on your work. Writing can be a very self-indulgent, lonesome activity. It's another thing entirely to open up your work to the public. To invite criticism and rejection on a larger scale than a few queries could ever solicit.
When I was down in the dumps, a lovely member of a critique group helped me put a smile on my face again, with this hilarious take on how one author handled rejection.