Rejection

I’ve heard it said that writers get enough rejection letters to wallpaper a room. If that’s the case, my first piece of wallpaper arrived yesterday. I haven’t affixed it to a wall yet. I haven’t even read it more than once. Currently, it sits atop the ripped-open, self-addressed envelope that carried it from the editor’s hands back to mine. It sits there with the same words it had on it last time I read it. It sits there black and white, plain and simple, on a slip of paper not even a half a page long. But this slip of paper makes me feel… surprisingly, proud.

I’ve never been a fan of rejection before, and while I know my dislike for it will never change, my fondness for this first rejection letter came fairly quickly. I clenched back the tears that first threatened to escape my eyes with two simple words. I tried.

Instead of being encumbered by fear, I tried. Instead of discounting my dreams, I tried. Instead of worrying about a lack of talent, I tried. I made a submission. I bit the bullet. I tried.

And I will try again. After all, one piece of paper will hardly cover a wall, let alone a room.