Even more important than knowing how to throw a sentence together, writers have to have very thick skins. Unless you're really fucking lucky, because most of us face scores of rejection for every tidbit of acceptance. I've been doing this for a long time now, and a few years back, I just got sick of the constant "no's" and kind of retreated from pitching stories. This is a really stupid way to be, because it's not like I think I'm such a terrible writer that I should pack it in, I just couldn't stand the constant ego body blows. I fully know I could be doing a lot better if I pitched a lot more, but instead of getting easier, it kept getting harder and harder. Thus, my tiny little bank account and my giant, looming credit card bills. And it's not like I'm any good at much else!
But anyway, with the help of pharmaceuticals and exercise, I've trying to boost myself out of this mindset and make a little money. Lately it seems to be working a tad better, which is why I wasn't that upset when I got a nice little form rejection letter from the New York Times. I submitted a story to the "Modern Love" column about finding out at his memorial service, that my dead ex had cheated on me. I discovered this little nugget of info via a performance piece that his new girlfriend played out in front of his casket.
In order to pander to the Times audience, I pretty much wiped it clean of all the really nasty bits and sort of lied by saying the whole thing didn't bug me that much. I was even somewhat charitable towards the chick he cheated with, which anyone who knows me, knows is a blatent lie. Because the fact is, I can be one unforgiving bitch. So, yeah, they rejected it (me) and I feel like I deserved it because I was dishonest. (Not that they would've accepted it with the adult diaper jokes, but still.) Maybe it's the happy pills kicking in, but I'm really okay with it.