You know, I've been thinking about this rejection thing. I have truly withstood a lot of people telling me no, nope, nah, not-for-me, negatory, negative, nix-eroo, not-good-enough, right? I mean a lot. Whether I have been subjected to rejection more than other writers is debatable of course. We all have to face the slap. But maybe after 15 years and however many this blog indicates is the number of rejections my novel suffered, a lesser man (by which I mean third-gendered party) may have given up, or turned to another book. And while I have turned to other books, whose rejections are also documented here on this blog, I really felt that the novel should be published, so I kept pushing forward with it until it found a home last month at a literary press. On reflection, I think I was raised to withstand enduring shit storms. Let's just say, I had some practice as a kid. And, perhaps, you will recall the little matter of my being disinherited. People in the family seem to not appreciate my writing about that, or about anything, much either. So, maybe I'm a glutton for punishment or a tree-trunk for art. Not sure which, probably both. But either way, no word from the person in my family I have designated to inform via email of my impending publication. I thought the book being fiction might help ease its way. Then again, what is fiction if not a way to tell the truth?
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