I’ve decided I don’t like being rejected much. For all the smug commentary about the process being more important than the project, my claims to prefer being a writer than one who has written, etc etc, I am not too keen on the little letters and emails I get every now and again. There isn’t a way not to take it personally because the writing is personal. I might make most of it up, but no-one else could make it up in that way except for me, so when someone says no, it puts me in a bad mood.
Other things that put me in a bad mood are: little one caking her head in Vaseline when I am trying to benignly-neglect her and write another paragraph, using one of my bare feet to stand on a little metal train from the train set, finding my cat has had his upset stomach under the kitchen table (I am sorry, little one, for blaming the smell on you), not being able to find the paying in book for my savings account, having to answer the phone and the recycling man not taking the cardboard in the recycling box because I put it out too early and it got rained on.
The main thing is the writing though. It should be enough, I think, to have finished it and checked the punctuation and given it a nice title and printed it out. I have a little stash of them in a drawer, muttering patiently about their fur-coats of dust. Despite all the stereotypes that abound about writerly types, no-one is such a loner (not me, anyway) that they wouldn’t like someone to read what they have written.
Or it should be called something other than rejection, like ‘deciding to be just friends’ instead of ‘dumped by text for your mother on Valentine’s day.’
Sometimes when I am in a bad mood I think about buying a really big bag of very tiny mega-bounce balls in neon swirly colours, and throwing them from the top of a very high building. Of course I would make sure that no-one was about first. I am going to make all my stories into paper aeroplanes and go onto the top of Preston Bus Station’s multi storey car-park and fly them off the top and MAKE people read them. Bastards, all of you.