It’s been a while since I heard from you. And I was fine with that. You aren’t much fun to hang out with – in fact, you are kind of a party-pooper. My sisters have a name for you:
I remember one particular time you came around: you must have said something to the boy I was dating, because he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore after you talked to him. There wasn’t anything wrong that I could see – he just ended it.
The worst part was the not knowing why.
Then there was the time you visited when another boy I was dating – a perfectly nice boy, really – became irritating and uncomfortable, like shoes that seem fine at first, then pinch and bind. The longer you whispered in my ear, the more unlikely it seemed that we should ever have been a couple in the first place.
He said the worst part was the not knowing why.
Now here you are again.
I applied to a writers’ workshop. I didn’t get accepted. Which is another way to say: rejected. (Your favourite word, right?) I didn’t even get a letter or email to say I wasn’t accepted. That happens with you sometimes. I don’t know if they didn’t like my subject material, or the voice of my main character. Or maybe they thought my writing sample wasn’t strong enough.
The worst part (as usual) is that I don’t know why. And I probably never will.
But this time is different. You don’t get to hang around – there is nothing for you here. I’m putting on my big-girl panties and kicking you to the curb.
If they don’t like my subject material, there’s not much I can do about that. This is the story I am called to write, right now. I believe in this story.
If they thought my writing was weak, I can do something about that. I will keep on reading, writing, learning. I will work on my craft.
And, you, Rejection? I won’t spend any time worrying about you. Oh, I know you’ll be back, with a smug grin and a sucker-punch to my gut. I may tear up a little, but I won’t cry uncle. I will apply again. I will submit again.
I am a writer.