It’s another Monday of another week, a week I’m glad is over because it’s been a strange one. Not bad, which is good, just a little off. This week isn’t much better, but I’ll shoulder through it all the same. The important thing is to just take each day as it comes, with a particular looking-forward-to regarding Mondays. There’s just something about the freshness of the new week that really keeps me going lately.
Reading: Although the pile of books I’m reading right now keeps getting larger because I haven’t managed to finish anything lately, I’m getting close with a lot of them and I’ve added Tina Fey’s Bossypants to the mix, which I can gather so far is going to be a very quick, very amusing, and very relatable experience for me. All and all, I’m going to keep trying to finish Night Train to Memphis, which just seems to never, ever end, but I’ve got to get there eventually, right? …right? Please, just let me get there eventually…
Writing: Here is the section where the title of this post comes into play. Some of you (like, maybe two of you) might remember last week when I said something to the tune of, “Oh, if only I had more rejections coming my way so I had more stuff to just lazily turn around and send off to other journals!” Ask, and ye shall receive. It started almost immediately later that day, but throughout the week, my rejections skyrocketed from 19 since I started keeping count to a whopping 24. Five rejections in one week, and I’m feeling a little battered because of it. And, of course, all five of those stories have been promptly trussed up and sent off again, but I’m feeling that first tinge of discouragement. All these rejections and not a single acceptance? Oof. It’s a little hard on the ego, but I keep remind myself to just stick it through, because at the start of October, I’ll have two stories coming to print to remind me that I don’t completely suck.
And that’s the real crazy part about this industry. Not only do you have to be patient in waiting for responses from what you submit, but there’s usually a long wait between acceptance and publication, too. The magic and excitement of an acceptance wears down long before you finally see the final product in print. You’ve got to have the perseverance of a saint to be a writer, you really do. Thankfully, the fact that I’m reminded every morning of how much I love this (masochistic as it may seem) helps out a lot. I’ve never been happier to suffer so much dragged out torture and emotional roller coasters.
The new story I started this week is something I hope to finish for World Weaver Press’s Equus anthology, which is kind of exciting for me, because, while I’ve never really been one of those girls who were gaga for horses, there’s always been a part of me that wanted to be, and I feel like I’m tapping into that a little. Also, it’s only four days away from the deadline for Less than Three’s Heart of Steel anthology, and I’ve almost got my story finished. I’ve started typing it, at least, and thankfully have at least two days off because the deadline to really get it done. I am not going to miss another deadline!
‘Rithmatic: Scale still remains the same. I managed to get two walks in last week, though, so that’s really good. Definitely will get at least one in this week, too, though I’ve got to start trying to figure out what to do about my hiking once winter really hits. The autumn weather is fine; I like to bundle up for walks, anyway, but Chicago-area winters are harsh as hell, and I’m not that crazy to do ten mile walks in below freezing weather. I’m considering a gym membership once some Christmas money comes my way, but I always consider a gym membership, but can’t bring myself to actually spend that money. Maybe I’ll decide that it’s winter, so hibernation is acceptable. But I did that last year and that’s when I gained the twenty pounds I’m trying to shed again now. We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it.
That’s it for now. Time to go figure out which story to send out today, which I think will officially put me at forty stories out in the ether. But try telling that to me workaholic self that claims I’m not doing nearly enough. Ahem.