Rejection letters

by jexmas on February 22, 2016

“You don’t ever just do what I ask you to do, do you?” I said, exasperated.
“What do you mean?” you replied. “I hang off your every word.”
“Well, you might hang off every word, but you won’t get off your butt.”
“Ouch!” you said. “That’s not true. What’s got into you today?”
Just hearing you ask the question brought tears to my eyes.
“Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You came over to me, looking into my eyes, concerned. “Did something happen?”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel my face flush and shame rise through me, from my feet burning up through to the top of my head.
“What happened?”
“Another fucking rejection letter,” I sobbed. “That’s number thirty-five.”
“Oh, don’t be upset. That’s just thirty-five times that the world has missed an opportunity to read a great writer.”
“Don’t try and make it better,” I snuffled. “I’m just a failure at this. I might as well give it up.”
“Stop!” you said loudly and much more forcefully than usual. “This is not about failure. This is about doing what you love. Who cares if they don’t accept it today? There is always tomorrow and there is always another publisher.”
“I know,” I said. “You’re right. But it’s so discouraging.”
“I’m not so sure,” you said. “After all, I love your writing. I like nothing better than to come home and have you read to me your latest piece. It is the highlight of my day.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes, really.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I haven’t told you?”
“No, you’ve never said that to me.”
“Well, it’s true. You write really well and your pieces are quirky and engaging.”
“It’s so great to hear you say that. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d think it was silly. It seems so obvious to me.”
“If only you were a publisher,” I said.
“In my next life, sweetheart.”

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