Thirty Times Nothing

I received a very nice rejection letter today.  The editor had nothing but nice things to say about my story.  Oh, and, I won’t be publishing it.  By my count, that makes thirty different literary magazines (some more literary than others) that have rejected my work.  The unnamed editor advised me to try simultaneous submissions because publication is a “numbers game.”

Perhaps my skin is too thin to be a writer.  I think about writing all day long.  As soon as I wake up—literally.  I’m writing before five minutes have passed from eye-opening.  On my way to work (sometimes at work), on my way home from work.  As I drift off to sleep, I am thinking about my stories.  It is, in brief, my life.

I read a lot too.  Some of what I read is shit.  I try to refrain from harsh words, but some people succeed in writing who should be condemned to the slush pile hell I inhabit most of the time.  I get enough encouraging rejections not to jump off the bridge just yet, still, why can’t they spare me a page or two?

Is it really just a numbers game?  I’m friends with an editor.  He tells me a big part of his job is rejecting stuff, a lot of it good.  He also tells me the publishing industry is foundering.  Hmm...  any relationship between these two things?  “Why don’t you take the good things?”  I ask.  

“The publisher wants the big ticket items.”  So if you’ve got a story about a lesbian vampire who survived the zombie apocalypse, you’ve got a winner.  Anything less is banal and beneath the radar.  I would say it might just be art.

Of course, it is art that will never be seen.  Edgar A. Poe had difficulty finding publishers.  He turned to a somewhat successful career as a critic, hatcheting away at writers who were, admittedly, not half as talented as was he.  Poe, however, always struggled.

So, what is thirty times nothing?  It is life as usual for a writer, I guess.  It is time to send that story out yet again.  And if I fail, I know a grave in Baltimore where I can be remembered nevermore.