I’m really grateful towards those who have been reading my work. As it turns out, if I waited for official print, I doubt my work would survive the process. It’s not that I haven’t tried.
For my birthday this year, I got to open about three different rejections for literary work. It never surprises me really, I’m only one of hundreds, but it’s always at the worst possible time, isn’t it? “What’s a bare punch when you can use brass knuckles?” fate is saying. You have to wonder, was it just bad? Or is there something wrong with it? I create only from what I feel, I’m not cleaning it up if it offends, if that’s what they’re hinting at. You never really know.
It seems rougher, I believe, because I’m not in a place where I have any outlets for my work. Just submissions and social media are all I have, and they’re often fruitless in all ways.
But, you know, I do consider what a blessing just those are. There are amazingly talented writers whose life’s work is screwed over by their environment and lack of amenities on a daily basis. It’s a great fortune to be able to type this and have anyone see it, really. It’s just the active blinding of my writing, whether by my own hand or just bad timing, it feels very fatalistic.
-S. M., 2018