Last night, on a whim, I opened my email and found one. One what? A rejection notice. It wasn’t form, and it was very encouraging, but my little quiet story is still looking for a home.
Some of the comments from the editor :
“I appreciate the amount of time and work that you invested in this story, and I am certain that you will be able to find a publisher for this elsewhere.”
“You have written a nice story, and I enjoyed reading it. Please know that I am not rejecting this work due to any flaw of your own ability. ”
“I look forward to reading more material from you in the future!”
But the story is short, and it is quiet. By quiet, I don’t mean nothing happens. A lot transpires in those 1800 words, but no one gets bit, no one bleeds, and strangely enough, no one speaks vocally. Maybe there’s a little bit more of me in it than I will ever admit. But I still like the story, and I’ll still try to find another place for it to live.
And somehow I sidetracked myself. What I started out to write was how strange it is to have an instant (or faster than in the “olden days”) response to a submission. Some of us (I will mention no names) may click refresh “every so often” when we’re waiting for word on our latest spawned mind child. But being able to do that in fuzzy slippers with a cat on your lap and not have to drive to the post office or stalk your mailman has its benefits. You get to react without a public standing guard to point and whisper. You can shriek with laughter and have no snide looks (except from pets…I’ve heard fish don’t mind). You can poke a spoon in a jar of peanut butter, and no one will raise an eyebrow. This holds true if you’ve found out at home…I can’t guarantee the lack of reaction if you’re hunkered down in the corner of a coffee shop and start to scream. In fact, I’d almost bet there will be looks and perhaps a 911 call. But for all the refreshing we may or may not do to hear from the editors, it’s nothing compared to haunting the post office. Could even be that it’s too convenient a distraction…