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Sucking out the poison!

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 gamblers and charlatans and we enjoy pain.  We must, or we wouldn't keep coming back for more. 

Right now, I'm sucking out the poison from last night's sting so that I don't waste anymore time or tears over what's now ancient history in the wide world of submissions.  I've got vampires yelling at me to pay attention to their stories and there might be a small ladybug hollering expletives at me too, she has a small voice so it might just be the wind.
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