Today is a momentous day. I got my first rejection slip for "The Bookseller". Oh, well.
But you know what's weird? I thought I'd prepared myself thoroughly for this. I've been lurking around writers' websites, reading writers' magazines and watching author interviews for long enough to hear all the horror stories about bedrooms decorated with rejection notes. JK Rowling hawked Harry Potter round all the slush piles before she got a sniff. I've seen the long discussions about agents being snowed under with submissions and how 99% of the time don't even have time let alone inclination to look at yours. It's nothing personal. I've read (and even dished out) the sound advice to ignore it and try, try again.
But it still stings, just the same.
It makes no logical sense. Never in a million years would my manuscript be accepted at the first try. I'd have better odds doing the lottery. So, knowing that, I'm a little surprised at my own reaction. Part of me must have hoped, against all the odds...
So for about half an hour I've gone through the usual "Why am I doing this, I clearly have no talent and don't stand a chance, it's just a waste of time and effort..."
But the good news is, it does pass. I'm nothing if not an optimist. So what if I get to redecorate my bedroom with rejection slips? It needed decorating anyway. :-)