One becomes inured. That is to say, rejection letters are far more common than acceptances. So it became clear to me while looking at my Submittable page recently. The number of cheery blue acceptances is largely outweighed by those dreary gray “declined”s.
Look, I’m an editor. I know how this game works. Every day I see the pitches the hopeful send, wanting to be represented by my press. Every day I try to think how to write rejection letters that are complementary, comforting, encouraging. The point is, I see bad writing.
Some people see dead people. Others of us see dead writing. Books that should never have been born. When you agonize over every word, and when you know that you’ve got some felicity with the pen (or on the keyboard) being classed with those who clearly don’t understand is painful.
Awfully gloomy for a positive post, I must say! I just received the good news that my story, “Glass-Walled Cabin,” was accepted for publication by The WiFiles. As is my custom, I will write a little about the background to the story after it is published. For now it’s just a nice, cheery feeling in my chest and belly that I’ve received an acceptance letter.
“Glass-Walled Cabin” is my nineteenth story accepted for publication. The WiFiles is the tenth magazine that has been willing to take a chance (and what’s to lose when it’s only electrons?) on my grappling with reality. Stories, after all, are an effort to make some mark on the world. However tiny.
As an editor I often wonder what you have to do to gain credibility. In editorial board meetings I hear talk of authors you accept no matter what. That translates into authors whose past books have earned money. It’s all about the money. Really, it is.
I’ve never been paid for my writing. One story, “Initiating an Apocalypse,” won a contest on Calliope, which earned back the entry fee plus a few dollars. I don’t write for the money. I write because I must. It’s who I am.
Not that I would object to having someone toss a few coppers my way for my efforts. But I’m too realistic to hope for that. I am an editor, after all.
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