I’m waiting for rejection. Or I could put my postive face on (dust it off first) and say I’m waiting for acceptance. Oh, though one agent might give you a few precious moments of her life and then promise to support you for better or for worse, through sickness and in health, until death (or remainder) you part…there is always another soul whose attention and acceptance you must gain. Any fool who wants to be a published writer has to realize that she or he will be rejected daily even if some crazed publisher pays millions for the right to hurl copies at some unfortunate bookseller.

Agents reject. Wahoo, one accepts! Publishers reject. Hey, one takes the bait! Reviewers reject. Ah, one shows some kindness! Buyers reject. Oh, but there is always that bargain book buyer! Friends and family reject too no matter how much they love or tolerate you. Oh my god, I’m gonna be sick, but they’re still talking to me.

Why does anybody pursue a life that promises streams of rejection?

I really don’t know, but I can’t do anything else.