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