While we were excited by the premise and enjoyed your writing, we couldn’t connect with the story the way we’d like.
This morning I received an email from a respectable publishing company that for once held praise for my work. Although they did still inevitably pass on the story – that heavy weight known as my first competed novel manuscript – I will find solace in the available facts accumulated throughout this exhaustive adventure: my writing may not have found a home, but I am picking up stride with each rejection. More and more the publishers are actually communicating with me as opposed to sending an automated message (of course, this email could have been sent by a heartless robot, too) filled with politely barren wishes of good luck on all future endeavors.
I don’t know. In a year filled with plenty of love, so many tears, and even more struggling against distraction, perhaps it’s okay to kid yourself. Next year is almost here, kid. You’ll be a year older – some say wiser, but let’s not confuse my silent demeanor as anything but antisocial narcissistic shyness – and wherever this long road turns next I’ll be ready because I still get up every morning to eat eggs or waffles or cereal or sometimes I have a bagel or/always coffee and even if I’m not exactly. sure of the reason why, I won’t ever give up. A crazily obsessive, ritualistically magical, tenaciously lovely, and indefinitely childish reason, though, that is for sure: I am a writer. Here me meow.
My story is awesome by the way. It’s way better than the premise gives it credit for. Fuck ’em. I know they say to take any criticism as constructive, but damn if that quote up there doesn’t make much sense to me. Looks to me like there’s a turn comin’ up and I gotta swerve right or I’ll end up driving through a large redwood. Maybe I could write about that. Is that literary enough? Existential angst wrought with inner turnoil and a distracting voice discussing the main character’s favorite food dishes after having survived the car wreck to having merged his or her being with a big ass tree, awaiting help only to eventually discover that there were no redwoods, just steadily approaching pandas in the foreground and bamboo. DUN dun dun. It’s, like, a metaphor for class warfare, guys.
I don’t know. Meow. I’m gonna take a break from writing today. Meow fucking meow. It’s funny though, Stephen King was right, you do grow thicker skin. Just last week that would have destroyed me and my day, but I’m totally stoked to have some juice and maybe some cake right now. Meow.