The sting of a rejection hurts. I almost wish they left physical scars so we writers could compare past injuries. I can see two crusty old writers belly up to a bar, exposing flesh. "See that one? Yep, got that when I subbed to Tor." "That one? pffft. That's a scratch compared to this one I got from subbing to Cemetery Dance." Anywho, I got a big old sting last night and I pouted and whined and sulked more than I have over anything in a very long time. I even coined a phrase: fanken crappenstance. (it felt right at the time, but now the meaning is elusive) When I woke up this morning, I was ready to set all of my flash drives on fire and just walk away. Honestly, I was. But writing is a drug. It is a lover. It's a damn part of me and even if I did walk away I wouldn't get too far before scrounging for a pen and something to write on. We writers are a cursed group. We're ga...
Dark fiction writer and all-around crafty girl