Another Day, Another Rejction Letter

As I walk down the driveway, the sun radiates a soothing warmth, masking the hidden gloom that awaits me. I hear the laughter of kids in the distance as I slip my hand into the mailbox. “Nothing but junk,” I mumble into the street.

Just then I see it, my breath catching in my throat. The sun casts a strange glare on the envelope, a mystical treasure from long ago. It has my writing on it. I had almost forgotten that I sent something out. After weeks of quiet hoping and silent dreams, the thought was forced from my mind for fear of going crazy. Four to six months they had said, much too long of a wait for the eager young writer.

I imagine the editors sitting in their desks, laughing their evil laugh and twisting their evil mustaches as they fold another rejection letter into my self-addressed-stamped-envelope, only to set it aside so that it can collect dust for a few more months. After all, how long can it take to tell me “no thanks”? They must get some kind of twisted joy out of prolonging my agony as much as they can.

Now it has finally returned. Isn’t it strange how something as ordinary as an envelope can be the cause of such apprehension? How it can make my heart skip a beat?

I scurry into my house and lock the door behind me, trying to keep my hopeful ambitions sealed outside. After all, why else would they want me to provide a stamped envelope? Surely if they had wanted my submission they would gladly shell out the thirty-seven cents. There is some kind of sick, self-inflicted torture that I find in paying for my own rejection.

Slipping my finger into the envelope, I open the hidden message with dread. For a brief moment I let my unspoken dreams surface, that faint whispering I allow myself in the quiet solitude of the late-night darkness, only to bury it again as I read the message. My standard exasperated sigh ensues.

Oh well, I knew they wouldn’t accept it anyway. Or at least that’s what I tell myself to get by.

But then I cheer up and place the letter in my folder with the others. That’s only the sixth time my article has been rejected. I print off another copy and grab a pen from the cupboard. Time to make it better. I know what I want to say and I have a feeling that others should hear it. Five times now I’ve re-crafted my words, refined my ideas. Maybe after another five I’ll finally get accepted.

I’ve come to one basic conclusion over my short writing career. It’s so simple, yet I have to remind myself every day. If I want it to get accepted, I have to send it out. I guess you could say that it has become my mantra, my voice of determination that keeps me going in desperate times. It seems so simple, but it is the most profound advice I’ve yet to discover. Every time I finish something, I send it out. Every time it gets rejected, I fix it and send it out.

I figure that if I send out 100,000 submissions, eventually I’ll get lucky and receive that so desired prize, the acceptance letter. It is almost a mathematical certainty. Some tired editor will eventually make a mistake and send out the wrong letter to the wrong address. Then I’ll have my proof. I’ll laminate it and frame it and hang it on my wall. I’ll call my mom. I’ll tell all my friends. I’ll let the whole world know that I’ve been accepted. If they don’t believe me, well, I got the letter to prove it.

Submit, submit, submit, I have to constantly remind myself. If I want it to get accepted, I have to send it out.

The next time I get a rejection letter, I’ll smile and think of the future. Every time that it gets rejected, it gets better.

Hopefully, one day soon I’ll take a deep breath, close my eyes, and open another letter. Then a smile from ear to ear.

Maybe I should pick out that frame, but first I’ll have to call my mom.