Nothing Like It

 There’s no feeling like it.  Finishing a story that you know is good.  You’re ready to send it to a publisher right away.  But then you hesitate.

You’ve received so many rejection notes but each one stabs you afresh when another one comes.  Still, you know this story’s good.  You’ve managed to do something different than you usually do.  Will they, can they appreciate it for what it is?

I’ve managed to have thirty stories published—averaging one per every two years I’ve been on this planet.  The rejection numbers are beyond a one-to-one correspondence.  And yet, I know this story’s good.

Fiction publishing’s all about convincing some editor you don’t know that you do know.  You know your own writing.  I write many stories that aren’t publishable.  Writing’s that way.  When I do manage a good one I’m like a kid on Christmas morning.

It takes thick skin, they say, to be a writer.  My question is should it?  Of course, there are lots of would-be writers out there.  You’d think a guy my age might have some observations about life to share.  In fictional form.

There’s always an element of struggle to it.  Quite often I go back and re-edit my stuff.  I edit stories before ever submitting them.  I do tend to work in isolation, so nobody else reads them before I move them on.  That’s one burden of using a nom de guerre.  (People I know wouldn’t be accepting of my fictional thoughts.)

I know lots of editors—mostly of nonfiction.  One thing they tell me is that other eyes should see writing.  Often those eyes end up being of the editor her or himself.  And if they spot too much wrong, the rejection letter follows naturally enough.

I sometimes wonder if they’ve forgotten the excitement.  The thrill of writing something they know is good.  There’s nothing like it.