I got rejection #2 from a literary agent yesterday. I opened the email and read it as if it was no big deal, but then spent the rest of my day increasingly mired in bouts of bitterness and depression. By the time I went to bed, face and hands caked with clumps of raw cookie dough, I decided I was done with writing and you can all go to hell and maybe I’ll just go shoot myself in the face with a bazooka and then you’ll be sorry.
Of course, I woke up this morning and felt better. So it goes.
At least this rejection was slightly more personal. The first rejection addressed me as “Author,” but this one used my actual name: “Dear Ches.” Now isn’t that nice? Four little letters — C-H-E-S — make all the difference in the world! Suddenly, I’m a real human being, whole and true, as opposed to some nameless archetypal character that’s been relegated to a mere extra on this movie set we call life.
Of course, The agent I actually queried wasn’t the one that made this grand effort to type my name, the rejection came from someone else, but I’ll take it. I have no idea if the agent I sent it to even saw it. I choose to believe she did and was so overwhelmed with emotion, she quit, became a nun, and vowed never to read anything again because my book was so spectacularly good, it ruined all other books for her.
Yeah. I’m sure that’s what happened. 🙂