I woke up this morning to a rejection in my inbox. I didn’t really expect to be accepted (except maybe a little bit, because why else would I submit?), but it still takes a little bit out of you, still lets you a little down.
I archived the email and went to work on other things. After all, I am not a poet, really; so if my poems don’t find a home, it makes me a little sad for them, but probably it saves me from embarrassment later on.
And then half an hour later sat staring at the wall trying to figure out why I was relating so intensely to various blog posts about being rejected as a writer before I remembered. Once I remembered, I wasn’t bothered by it. I’m still not bothered by it, per se, although publication would have been nice.
But it stuck to me enough that, even though I forgot about the actual rejection, I felt slightly rejected.
It seems to me that most writers have egos that are either incredibly fragile or huge and unbreakable. I wonder which is better?