I belong to a dedicated group of writers. Rather than read and critique, we meet and share goals, frustrations, work habits, what “haunts” us, what pushes us toward or away from the art of writing. At our last discussion, we counted our rejections of the past few weeks. Six for me, four for another skilled and well published author. Although I have developed thicker skin, it betrays me with its fragility again and again. Six rejections in two weeks. Am I worthy of calling myself a writer? This morning at 6 a.m., before I had my first sip of B-52 flavored coffee and don’t ask why it’s named that, I received an acceptance with editorial suggestions. Putting off experiencing the pain of cutting of those notorious “little darlings” is my usual strategy. Not this morning. Not for a story I’ve reincarnated several times over the course of six years. Bracing for impact, my head nearly exploded with hubris, my heart with exaltation, because the editorial comments told me whoever read this story “got it.” Got my message about sibling rivalry, about a girl on the cusp of her sexuality, about how a child finds her place in the world. “Wow,” I thought, “Wow, wow, wow.” An epiphany followed all those “wows.” When it comes to rejections, a lot depends on who reads the story. Through all the workshops this piece has survived, no one has ever stated so succinctly what it was about. Somehow this editorial staff read this story through my eyes. Did it happen because multiple revisions fostered clarity? Did the reader(s) connect to the trauma of coming of age in an imperfect, modern world? Or, were the stars finally in proper alignment for the piece? Regardless, my skin is a bit thicker, and I remind myself that readers, editors, and writers have one thing in common, we are fragile human beings, products of our experiences, which in turn, affects how we write, read, and judge what is written. Today, I am a writer.
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