Well, I’ve been holding my breath for quite some time now having done something I had never dared to do before. A few months ago I submitted my very first piece of writing to an online magazine. I sent it knowing in my mind that I would likely face rejection, but for me it was a now or never leap of faith in myself.
For years and years, I’ve done nothing but write for myself. I have only very rarely shared my work with anyone. Until these past few months, even my husband didn’t know I was a writer. He still seems mystified by it; not shocked that I do write, but that he’s now seeing me write for the first time. That I’ve come out of the proverbial closet, so-to-speak. I still don’t show him my work. Perhaps he’s hunted me down here, on my blog, but we don’t talk about it and for now, I like it that way.
So today was the day that I finally received my first rejection letter. Not a mean one, but a gentle one. One offering a chance at revision and resubmission. That was one step better than I’d hoped for to be honest.
Today I am celebrating; celebrating the fact that I had the courage and just enough confidence in myself to submit a piece of writing. Celebrating the result of months of waiting. Celebrating the kindness of the rejection. Celebrating the fact that I am not completely demoralized by the rejection. Celebrating the idea that there will be many more rejections to come. Celebrating the idea that I might yet come into my own as a writer.
Afterall, you can’t get published if you never submit your work.