Today I received another rejection slip. Yes, one more to add to the ever-growing putrid compost heap that is my writing career. But do I let this get me down? Do I let this rejection trample on what is left of what little self-esteem I have left? Do I let this insult by some rat-faced scrote who wouldn’t know magnificent word prowess if it walked up and introduced itself get me down? You’re damn right I do! It sucks! Big time!
But then I am kidding?
I was meant to tell stories. I did not come into this knowledge until late in life. Better late than never, huh? What those who reject my work don’t know is I write because that is what I do. I write because writing keeps me sane in an insane world. I write because I was meant to tell stories. Don’t get me wrong I am not a purist. If fame and fortune knocks on my door I will swing that baby wide open, buy the BMW750i (cash), slap on the ray-bans, and buy a place on the beach. But you know what? If that never happens (and trust me it probably won’t) I would write anyway. Why? Because that is what I do.
