rejection

Forgive me my trespasses

It’s bad enough to be rejected. My short story didn’t win the Toronto Star competition. I console myself with the belief it's more of a train-of-thought monologue, than a traditional story. Fair enough. But mishaps that remove you from the competition altogether are worse. In this case I had only myself to blame although I’ve spent the last two days identifying who and what else might shoulder that burden.

Friday sucked.

It doesn’t happen overnight

 I’ve hit a bit of a wall. It’s 2:15 am and I’m up crying, well sniffling. Things are always worse in the middle of the night but in the middle of the night that logic is never helpful.

It’s a process not an event…

I didn’t get the Ontario Arts Council grant. Fuck em if they don’t know a great thing. Well maybe a good thing, but one day it could be great.

Here I am: Reject me.

Note: This is about literary rejection. I’ll save the other form for the memoir.

Last fall I applied for 16 Ontario Arts Council (OAC) Writer’s Reserve Grants. They require submissions directly to publishers that act as third party recommenders. I could have applied for 35. I decided to be selective and save on stamps and large envelopes.

“Read through the list carefully and pick the ones that sound like a fit,” my friend Rachel Zolf, an award-winning poet, told me. “Don’t worry about getting rejected. It’s part of the deal. I’ve been rejected tons of times.”

Pages