Tonight, I whine in Hell

Rejection hurts like a son of a bitch. If criticism feels like getting hit with buckshot at less than ten feet,  rejection feels like getting dropkicked in the face by a person wearing spiked cleats.

Let’s back up a bit.

Last month, I wrote a story and submitted it somewhere as writers are wont to do when seeking to get published. Then I waited. I have submitted things before this, and all of those instances were like sending stuff into oblivion. It’s no use waiting when you do this, since you will never hear back if you didn’t make the cut. (I’m not sure why I – and people like me – keep doing this to myself and for what? That smidgen of validation?) This time though, I was assured that I’d hear back on October 15^th and I did.

This PSA is brought to you by murderous Karl. Why it's apt, I dunno.

I have to say, the rejection hurts and had the letter come from somebody else, I‘d have printed it out, shredded it, and killed it with fire. Is there such a thing as an awesome letter of regret? It’s from people I look up to, whose writing I respect and like, so I took the chance to ask for feedback. Thankfully, they took the time to explain why the story didn’t make the final set. It was good, but not good enough.

Rejection sucks, but sure as hell won’t kill you. It didn’t kill me and I’m not sure why (siguro kasi matigas lang talaga mukha ko). I told Rem last night, after I had mourned the story for a few minutes, “Konting tasa pa.” Konting tasa pa. Sometimes I wished I could have those awesome training montage scenes of running up stairs. My kind of training, however, won’t entail that sort of thing. It won’t be done on a beach with waves lapping on my feet, but on my desk with my netbook and writing implements. Before that though, I’d share a monster Coke float with Criticism, Rejection, and Doubt may drop by too.