A Rejection - Ah, Poor Me

A couple of weeks ago I received a rejection for a short story I submitted back in April. It was such a non-event that I barely cracked the SASE enough to confirm that it was, indeed, a rejection and then promptly lost the envelope in the mess of stuff that covers my desk. Most of the time I’m fairly prompt about logging and recording my every effort. Rejection notices are saved, sort of like badges of honor to prove to myself that at least I’m out there doing something.

It was this morning that I finally came across the envelope again and officially crossed that submission off my potentials list. When all is right with the world, my course of action would have been to re-read the story, likely make a few changes, and submit it elsewhere within the week. That’s how I became a published non-fiction writer. I just kept sticking it out there again and again and again.

My work with fiction is going much, much slower. And I can’t decide if it’s because the job is just harder or my heart just isn’t quite in the right place. Or maybe it’s my mind. It’s not that the stories marching through my head have ceased, but that I seem to find the distractions of life, in general, so much more pleasant to deal with right now. I’m feeling oddly lazy and without drive to do much more than observe whatever sparkly sits before me at the moment.

I wish I could describe it as being full of content, but the honest truth is that there’s something nagging me. Try as I might, I can’t get rid of this little voice that keeps telling me that sometimes slow can be too slow. Relaxed shouldn’t look like comatose. Hanging in there doesn’t mean you no longer want to climb the rope.

It was eight months ago that I threw a little tantrum because my doctor closed his office doors without any notice to his patients. I found this out from the pharmacist when I tried to refill my prescription. Instead of being a grownup about it, I decided I’d “give myself a break”. I’ve been taking a thyroid supplement for 10 years, ever since half my thyroid gland was removed surgically, and, as childish as it sounds, I’ve always resented the fact that I have to rely on medication.

Honestly, I thought I’d give myself a couple of months to cool off and then I’d find a new doctor and get on with things. But eight months have passed, and although I can tell you a dozen ways that I’ve done just fine without it, I’m most certainly not at normal operating levels, and I’m finding it hard to make excuses any longer. I keep thinking about that rejection note, which STILL isn’t in that sacred place where all little rejection notes go, and telling myself that it should have meant more. It should have produced a flurry of activity – of writing and re-writing and pushing to get just one more story complete.

It’s stupid to hesitate.

But there's another little part of me that wonders. What if I start taking thyroid medication again… and I still don’t care? What excuse will I have then?