“Writing can be a pretty desperate endeavor, because it is about some of our deepest needs: our need to be visible, to be heard, our need to make sense of our lives, to wake up and grow and belong. It is no wonder if we sometimes tend to take ourselves perhaps a bit too seriously.” – Anne Lamott
This week, I got the wind knocked out of me.
I submitted a piece I wrote for publication online and was swiftly rejected the same day.
A couple of times I’ve submitted articles that were completely ignored and somehow this was easier on my fragile ego because I told myself that maybe the editors hadn’t read what I wrote. (In reality, in these cases, it’s probably even more of an insult that I wasn’t even worthy of a rejection email, but I’m going to take that piece of information and sweep it under the rug.)
This is the first time I’ve received an actual rejection email, and it stings, like the feeling you have when you’re dumped by your boyfriend. If you’ve never been dumped, compare it to the feeling when you didn’t get the job you applied for. If you’ve never experienced either of these events, I don’t want to know you (kidding).
The feeling of rejection reminded me of a memory I haven’t thought of in years. I was 12 years old and sitting by my first ever frenemy in band class. My frenemy, (we’ll just call her Nikki) with her long, tan, shiny legs, and her ability to flirt with every junior high school boy without even trying, was discussing the upcoming popularity vote for the yearbook categories of “Most Likely to Succeed”, and “Best Eyes”, etc.Continue Reading