Friday, October 30, 2009
As October draws to a close, I must admit to feeling almost as broken as this fence. There seems to be so much stress swirling around my house... the neighborhood... the world... and I seem to be absorbing wa-a-a-ay too much of it. Like a sponge. A stress sponge.
I received another rejection letter in the mail yesterday. I know I can't take it too personally, because it was one of those photocopied "Dear Writer" letters. Not even "Dear Author." Not even really signed by an assistant faking their boss's name. At least it was a clean copy.
As I was walking on the beach with the dogs this dreary morning, I was thinking about this latest rejection, trying not to dwell too much, but still wondering how long until this novel finds a home?
Mere moments after I'd posed this question of "How Long?" to the Universe, a big yellow number eight washed ashore with the waves. No, really it did. It's like a solid plastic house number, with holes to nail it on (although why anyone would want bright yellow house numbers I don't know.)
So what does that mean?
Eight more days? Eight more rejections? Eight more manuscripts? Eight more years?
The Universe didn't give me any way to interpret this sign, just the sign itself.
At least someone's listening.