So, I had a flurry of submissions that I sent out at the end of January. On the 31st of January to be exact. The month had flown by, and I had fallen behind on some projects, but I made a promise to myself that I was going to get submissions out before the end of the month. I sent out a handful, all to lit journals that I felt my work complimented. Just playing the game like a million other writers.
I do appreciate that the readers and editors of these journals can get inundated with submissions, and though they try their best, it can take time before they are able to respond. (I once got an email from an editor apologizing for taking so long on my submission, and then a month later they rejected me.) Everyone wants an answer sooner than later, and I do like that some journals says that you should expect a response after three months… if not sooner.
This afternoon I just received a rejection, after only nine days.
They were fast; I do like that.
It was substantially shorter than three months; I don’t like that.
In all fairness, it’s a rather odd duck of a flash piece.
See, I want to believe that there was a little bit of a debate over there. Like the reader is fighting for my piece, but the editor is holding strong that there really isn’t a place for my story in their publication, even though it is well written. Then other editors and readers start weighing in. The debate starts getting tense. Voices start rising. People are getting mad. Resignations are threatened; accusations of favoritism are made; mass chaos envelopes the office!
But, then cooler heads prevail. Drinks are had; apologies given; laughs are shared; everyone starts talking about why they got into publishing in the first place; the power of words and ideas; given people opportunities to share their voices and insights. It’s a thankless job; always on the verge of collapse; no one makes any money.
“We do this because we love it.” Someone says.
Everyone agrees, and smiles.
Then the managing editor adds, “But we got to reject that story.”
“That’s true,” the reader agrees.
“Send him the form letter of death!”
They all start laughing…
I guess what I’m saying is that if they would have held onto it for at least a month, then my ego wouldn’t be so bruised.
But, rejection is part of the game.
