It's been a difficult month for me . . . as a writer anyway. Most of the book proposals that I sent out in January have by now come back with "rejection" written all over them. Sure, the publishers always attempt to couch their rejections in flowery language like
Just not right for us at this time
Or
We wish you the best in placing your brilliant idea in the hands of an unsuspecting publisher who can really make this crap shine like shinola
Or
Better luck next time, Bimbo
But when I read these rejections (and thank God I rarely get form letters anymore) I always feel a bit disheartened. I think of all the coffee I drank, all the late nights I put in, and all the Gomer Pyle reruns I could have watched . . . and I think, "I have wasted my life." Mom was right. I should studied to be a brain surgeon. Or at least a plumber.
Shazaam! Gohlee!
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