“After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.” – Chuck Palahniuk, Choke
Waiting for rejection. For the let-down, the “we regret to inform you” form letter.
Waiting to be told that your friends and family have been telling you lies; as it turns out, you are not much of a writer after all.
This is what I had been waiting for since the end of March, when I submitted a non-fiction piece to a literary journal. It remains the only piece that I have ever submitted for publication as of this writing (not counting some online sports articles, I’m talking about a legitimate publication). I submitted it, fully aware that everyone gets rejected their first (and second, and third…) time out.
Well, the waiting is over.
The journal that I submitted to posts most of their accepted pieces on their website, a blog of sorts to display works that they like. Most accepted submissions find a home there, and are read only in digital form. Other pieces that, as the journal itself states, “really knock our socks off”, are considered for a quarterly print run.
The editor of this particular journal contacted me last week, after four long months of waiting – less about living and more about waiting – and they want my piece for their next quarter’s print run!
At this time, the editors are still compiling stories and preparing for the actual printing, so I am going to keep the details to a minimum. Once the journal is out, I will surely disclose the name of the journal and where you might be able to find it.
The rejections will come, surely they will, but it’s exciting to have someone other than a family member or my small group of friends confirm that I am capable.
Capable of organizing these letters into words, these words into sentences. Capable of being published.
Capable of writing.