I got my first rejection from a publisher today.
I was very proud.
Because in order to be rejected,
someone had read my work.
A professional.
And, if someone had read my work,
I must now be a writer.
One thing confused me.
I had smeared my life guts on those pages.
The ink was blood.
And the letter I received today -
said they were not accepting fiction
at this time.
