I received a rejected letter from a literary journal a day after I turned 34. If my work were to get published, then this would be one of the loveliest birthday gifts from the publishing world. Frankly speaking, I don’t mind rejection letters. I’ve gotten them so much that I can make collage on the wall. It’s part of growing up as a writer. It helps me (the writers) to grow-up and mature before we are accepted by one of the top-five publishing houses.
Now, the editor commented the lack in its ‘form, structure and plot’. And she’s willing to help me to polish it up, so that I’m ‘always welcome to re-submit’ to the journal again. Fine. I did as she told. It’s approaching a week or so, and I have yet to hear from her.
‘When there’s a will, there’s a way.’
Right. ‘That’ isn’t the only journal that’s available in this world. I can never blocking the door, idly standing there. I have to move on, not that I still have my legs that functioning, but I’m not going to waste anymore time. I’ve already submitted it to another literary mag, and had other alternative online journals in mind, as well.
Somehow, the feminism theory that I’d studied in the Jurisprudence class has kept me going ’til this day.