Tag: struggling

A Short Rant on Rejection

Rejection letters. We all get them. A lot of them. It’s the cost of trying to get your work out there; never-ending, hammering rejection. They are the constant speed bumps for the writer’s ego and confidence. Stories I’ve been proud of have been chipped at email by email until I start to question my sanity. Of course, you can’t let these rejections stop you.

It can be difficult to ford on through an inbox full of people passing on your stories. It’s easy to stop submitting your work. Or to give up hope on a project you believe in. But you can never give up. Sure, try another story, write something else up and fire that off. Keep trying.

It took me two years to get my short story “Automated Coffee” published in Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. Many times, I almost trashed the story. I didn’t. I kept submitting and submitting. You have to keep pushing forward one submission at a time. And while you wait for what seems like an endless waterfall of rejection letters, continue to remind yourself why you love to write. And the easiest way of doing this is, well, to just keep writing.

Write and read. Read and write. Write and read. Do this. Do this every day. Always. Continue to feed your passion. Read what other authors are writing. See what the magazines you are submitting to are publishing. Buy one of their editions. Check out their editors. Do everything you can do to see what’s out there. Immerse yourself in the world you’re trying to be a part of.

Over time these rejection letters can grow numbing. In a way, that’s a blessing. In another way, that can be even more dangerous than getting beat down by them. Use each rejection to fuel you. They are opportunities for you to grow as a writer and to continue crafting your passion.

Out of everything. Don’t ever stop writing.  

Mountain Top

I’m climbing this mountain to reach the top. I climb up narrow paths of rocks and dirt. Up and up, one foot after the other. I climb up so I can look down. Look down and scream. Sweating, and tired, I scream at the valley. My echo screams back.


For a lingering moment, my voice ricochets across the landscape. It returns just enough times to remind myself that no one is listening. On top of this mountain, I listen as my words meld into the cutting wind and my sentences dash across pine trees and rivers. I yell to be heard, but the moment doesn’t last. Up here, I am answered by myself. Always by myself.


My voice may turn the heads of those below, but few care about the source or the reason. My voice is a momentary pop in a world of horrible indifference, skidding out on some stranger’s driveway miles away. My energy is spent. I try again, laughing, screaming, and crying. I breathe deep and bay into the world like a lost wolf.


There are only so many times my voice can echo. On hands and knees, I beg the winds that silence me. With strained vocal cords, I shout. To stop means to return to silence. To return to a world that marches to a rhythm of dead voices. On this mountain, for a lingering moment, I am heard. Not by those below, or the birds above, but by myself.


And then I begin my descent.