So, I’m taking the advice of an editor I met at Gateway Con and putting novels on the back burner until I get something on the track to publication. In their stead, I’ve been playing with short stories (my first love) and flash fiction. And submitting same.
I’ve gotten a lot of rejections, more rejections than acceptances. This is not unusual. I have lost count of the number of rejections from agents and publications. I’ve become somewhat serene about the whole thing, as I can always revise and try again and feel that hope.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not really a writer anymore because I’m missing the angst. That says something interesting about how society sees writers, or how writers see themselves. We have to be driven. We have to fail.
What if writing, rather than publishing, is the reason I write?
Words Like Me 