Lately I've been doing some thinking: have I reached the pinnacle of my writing career? Like Brett Farve and Tiger Woods and King Louis VIII, am I past my prime? Or, am I just getting started? Is the best yet to come?
Big questions for a writer.
One thing I know: over the years I've had editors from most states reject my work. I know I've been rejected in Hawaii and Alaska (several times over, actually) . . . but I'm still a little fuzzy on some states. Rhode Island, for example. I'll have to write the Better Business Bureau up there and find out of I'm on a "don't accept list". I'm also not sure about Maine, although I remember it.
Years ago, I used to keep all of my rejection letters on file. I did this so that, if the IRS ever audited me and said, "Hey, you're just a pretend writer. You don't really write and you can't take a tax write-off on those stamps" . . . well, then I could pull out my crusty file and plop down eight-seven-pounds-worth of rejection letters as proof positive that I had sent something out.
I no longer keep rejection letters (I have other ways of proving I am a living, breathing person with aspirations and dreams), but I do make mental notes of the editors who have rejected my work. I'm very well represented in southern states. Editors down there don't like my Yankee views and they just reject me outright. And out west, although it's wild and wacky, I'm usually not wacky enough to get noticed. Most of my success has come from Midwest roots, from editors who, like me, eat black licorice and donuts and don't wear aftershave.
Still, I'm working on that 50 state goal. I'll get to Rhode Island and Maine with a manuscript very soon. Somebody out there must hate my work. They have to.
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