My latest round of rejections (poems and short stories) got me thinking: how many more signs from up above, down below and everywhere in between do I need to fall on my head or through my inbox until I get the message: YOU SUCK BIG DINOSAUR EGGS… GIVE UP THIS RIDICULOUS NOTION OF WRITING, YOU ILLITERATE FOREIGNER AND GO BACK TO JIGGLING FRIES AT BURGER KING. Or something of the sort. You know how us “wannabe” writers can be so dramatic. But back to my story. When the umpteenth rebuff came in my electronic mail a few days ago, I did the opposite of what I usually do, which is to delete it and pretend it never happened. I’m king AND queen of denial and up until a few days ago it was working. But for some reason, this latest one has become more than just a flesh wound. It has somehow managed to skulk into my subconscious and pitched a tent next to Doubt and Uncertainty. And if any of you know anything about the other two, they’re like roaches, impossible to eradicate. Yes, yes, I know adversity builds character and only a handful of writers have never received rejections, but still. When is it one rejection too many? Comedian Ron White (whom I love) had a funny joke. There’s this woman who says she’s slept with 50,000 men and they were all bad in bed. Ron White turns to the audience, with that confused look on his face and says “Wouldn’t you think, by man 49,998, she would have said, ‘maybe it’s me?’”
So that’s what I’m wondering: Maybe it’s me? Or maybe it’s my writing. And by the way folks, this ain’t a thinly veiled attempt for effusive flattery. It really is an evaluation or re-evaluation of ability. I realize there’s no perfect path, but was just wondering if others felt the same. Fire away.