This might all be horseshit
by Nikki Nelson-Hicks
Today, I hit a wall of disappointment.
Way back in October, a friend sent me info on an open submission call to an anthology that, if I were to get into, would really skyrocket my writing career.
“This is so up your alley, Nik!”
So, I wrote a story. I put everything on hold and worked on this mamajama for months and months. Sent it to friends who read it, gave me editing input, rewrote the whole goddamn thing again and again until it was finished.
And I submitted and waited. Every day, I’d check to see if my story had been accepted.
That was the perspective I used. ACCEPTED. Not, ‘Hey, has it been rejected yet?”
ACCEPTED. Putting out positive vibes into the Universe. Just like all the Motivational Posters tell me to do.
Today, I got the email: Thanks, no thanks. REJECTED, ya loser.
I swallowed my bile and went on with my day. I’m a busy bitch. I ain’t got time for none of that.
But it was still there. No matter how much I ignored it. The hurt. The shame. The OH FUCK, I SUCK.
But I went on with my day.
Until... a little voice in my head piped up, “Look at you, grinding your teeth. Why? Because of one little rejection?
Fuck those guys.
Look, let’s settle this, right now. Answer this question: What are you writing for? Why? Who are you writing for?
Because, sweetpea, here’s the real deal.
If you are writing for publication, then you need to study the market, see what sells, and write to please the Market.
If you write to tell a story that you want to share with the world…well, sweetpea, you just write what you want. Publish it. Put it in a sock drawer, fuck. It’s yours to do with as you wish.
What do you want?
If you want possible financial success, popularity, literary stardom, pursue the Marketing Path. It’s a Whore’s path, but accept it if you want. I’m not judging. You do you. Nothing is real, anyway.
If you want to have fun making up stuff and writing stories that you find challenging and might entertain a handful of friends, then pursue the Artist Path. It’s gonna suck. You’ll probably die alone, unknown. Your kids will inherit boxes and moth-eaten journals of all your stories, finished and unfinished, and probably throw the whole thing into a rubbish heap, but them’s the breaks, sweetpea.
Both paths are fine in their own way. Just, for the love of the moon above, decide where you want to walk, stop moping about one stupid story and get to work.
Damn.”
Yeah. My Guide is a tough broad.
