I was a writer long before I was a person with a mental illness. It's not just what I do; it's who I am. Even if it bloody kills me.
Which, sometimes, I think it might.
There are days when I think I just can't do it any more. I can't keep putting myself out there, just to be rejected. For my self-confidence to be destroyed. But, then, I remind myself that if I give up, I stop being a writer and start being a person defined by their illness.
It'll be a cold day in Hell. (I mean, of course, the proverbial Hell, not the Hell in Michigan - where it is often a cold day.)
So, I submit. I get rejected. Sometimes, I get accepted and that keeps me going for awhile. When I get rejected, I try to put a brave face on and tell myself that it's just something writers have to deal with. Which, of course, is completely true.
There is a point to this rambling, I promise, and I'm getting to it. Now.
I received a rejection yesterday that actually made me feel good about myself.
I can't even begin to tell you how much this meant to me. I don't know if it's a stock rejection or if the editor really meant what they said - and I don't really care. Either way, it was the kindest rejection I have ever received and I am so grateful for that.
My self-confidence is currently having a parade through my brain, waving flags and shouting, ''We're here, we're-'' Well, you know what I mean.
What will I do with this ego boost? The only thing a writer can do: keep submitting until that rejection turns into acceptance. Wish me luck.
