The first time is always the worst. I don’t think you ever get completely hardened to it.
You send all your hopes and dreams off out into the world and expect the world to instantly be dazzled by their worth and startling beauty. To recognize their barely disguised merit – ‘cos if there’s one thing you’re not going to do it’s hide your light under a bushel.
Instead the world flicks you off its tabletop like a ten day old mouse dropping with the smallest of sneers.
If you’re lucky.
Most of the time the world doesn’t even realize you’re there and merely brushes you away accidentally along with all the other crap and detritus that has built up around its privileged higher echelons.
My latest novel, The Great Escapes Of Danny Houdini, received its first rejection slip yesterday.
Polite, polished and perfunctory.
Simply not what the agent was looking for.
This particular agent dealt with writers who guarantee a huge audience and generate a good income. Or so it said between the lines. Well, duh! If I’d known that I’d’ve sent my novel to an agent who was looking for little or no success and hoping to earn just enough to buy a baked potato from the marquee operating in the square outside.
*slaps head in frustration*
So it’s back to the drawing board. Back to the writer’s yearbook to pull another random rabbit out of a bottomless, unknowable pit of a hat. There’s so many to choose from and you never know you’ve chosen the wrong one until you’ve paid for the postage, sent off your novel and they write back to tell you so.
They want this, that and the other – not what you have presented them with. But they’d like you to try somewhere else because another agent might see things differently.
Normally I can cope with the rejection. I’ve become pretty immune to its bloodsucking effects over the years. But sometimes, just sometimes, it sneaks a punch in below the belt. Wallops your tenders like a couple of cathedral bells at a Royal wedding.
It gets you when you’re at your most weakest...
When you’re at your most hopeful.