It feels like someone would just casually go ahead and stab me with a dagger and then saunter past not even bothering to glance back. It feels like climbing a mountain for years and years and someone already on the top of it giving me a little push downhill just as I’m reaching the treeline. It feels like those things and many more which I just can’t bother to type right now because what’s the point of writing.
So, I received my first rejection letter for my novel. I have drained three of those teamugs (black Tetley with honey and milk) after the fact (hour and a half ago). And yet, I don’t feel desperate. I just feel sad that someone read my story and didn’t think it good enough. And I know this is not the last time it’ll happen, but it’s the first, so I’m going to revel in my self pity and eat a lot of chocolate and drink a lot of tea and down a few gins tonight.
But. What I actually really feel like is writing.