Once a writer like me begins allowing his mind to go berserk with memories of lost loves and editors, the depression really begins to set in. There have been so many . . . women, I mean. And all of them have rejected me.
Take, for example, that trio of women at John Wiley & Sons in New York who, after reviewing my follow-up book to Candles in the Dark, decided that my future was with another publisher. Publisher, Senior Editor and Editor all told me the same thing: It's not you . . . it's me!
I'd heard this before from other women: "I'm sorry, but I've just outgrown you." "I'm sorry, but well . . . I've met another writer who makes my heart skip and constricts my capillaries." "I'm sorry but you deserve someone better who can really concentrate on your mediocrity . . . I'm just too busy looking for a genius."
I'm glad my wife understands below average. She's been telling me for nearly thirty years: "You ain't much, but you do mow a mean lawn."
When I show her samples of my writing, she yawns and stuffs the manuscript under the sofa cushion. "For later," she says, "Right now I'm concentrating on important stuff like America's Got Talent, and later I'm gonna watch Man Vs. Food."
"I can be your man," I tell her. "I've got an appetite!"
"Not now, you idiot," she'll say. "Deal or No Deal is coming on."
Rejection? I wrote the dictionary definition. Now, if only I can find that manuscript I'm looking for. Wait a minute, it's under the sofa cushion.
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