reflection on rejection

i tend to wait for the mail.  today was a special day, a literary magazine has sent me a decision letter.  as i wade through the junk mail and bills that i cannot afford to pay without sacrificing my lavish lifestyle of pasta (without sauce) and water a thought occurs to me.  i have sent out my work many times, and i been in this exact situation many times: wading through mail to find the rejection letter.  i call it a rejection letter because at this point it is a foregone conclusion that my work will go unwanted.

however, at the back of the mind, there is that voice and it’s telling you that today could change your life.  now, in all honesty, an acceptance letter and a mere few hundred bucks for a piece of work is not life changing.  it will barely be enough to buy a trip to the movies these days . . . however, it’s symbolic.  an acceptance letter radiates approval, fine wine for the spirit.  this is all speculation, mind you, as i have no experience with actually succeeding, just dreams.  one acceptance and my confidence will be restored, it will stop the bleeding, cauterize my wounded pride.  i’ll be renewed and ready to open the notebook again.  and that’s where the dream turns to a nightmare.  opening the notebook again . . .

if this letter is acceptance, it’s a small victory.  then the notebook must be opened again.  a new piece of higher quality must be created, and every successive piece must be of still higher quality.  if diminishing quality is found, the game is up.  only the greats can afford to slip up, only those at the top of the game.  if a hopeful attempting his climb falls . . . he falls all the way, breaking his spine, arm, and hopes in the process.  it’s a bloody mess and no one will come and heal you to health.

the house is on fire and you and your family are chained to your beds.  however, if it’s any consolation, the dog made it out just fine.

so here we are, arriving in the moment.  bills that will go unpaid stacked to the right, junk mail to be used as scrap paper on the left . . . letter in the middle.  i would try to build the tension here, but what does it matter anymore.  it’s opened.

rejection.

this moment, this exact point in time that keeps repeating is why i don’t own a pistol.  for this one minute, this short glimpse of bottomless depression . . .

you’d consider anything.