Dust off

I'm picking myself up and dusting myself off. This weekend I learned that a journal rejected the short story I submitted for a contest. Sadly, they don't even send form rejection letters. I found out by checking my submission status online - my status changed from "In process - we are reading your submission" to "Complete - we finished reading your story and will not be publishing it." Sweet. Two years ago I would have cried about the rejection, but I finally seem to be developing a thicker skin. I immediately began searching for a new place to submit. C'est la vie.

It sucks to be a writer sometimes. I spend my time researching (aka, reading books and traveling to cool archival libraries in the city) and creating new worlds (albeit out of old ones). I work at home and wear my favorite jeans, tshirt, and flip flops, and my assistant requires constant attention and the occasional walk or tug.

Drew, the writer dog and assistant extraordinaire.

It's a rough life. Can I please trade it all in for the cubicle and the office sludge, er, coffee?

p.s. Since my humor doesn't always come through, I am being completely sarcastic. (Well about the last bit anyway, I really did get rejected, and the pay really does suck.)