When I was about 14, I was shoveling horse poop in the barn and a wasp stung my inner thigh. It hurt like a bleeping bleeper! I still have the ugly, raised, and ghostly white scar. Even now, (many) years later, I transform into an Olympic sprinter when I see one.
I received nothing but rejection (mostly in the form of crickets chirping) on my first novel. Now, as I wait for the rejections to start rolling in on my second, I wonder if they will sting as much as they did the first time around, maybe more.
But this is what I do know. I’m not going to quit. I’m going to keep on trying. I have a lot more courage than I thought I did. I keep putting myself out there knowing that I may be dismissed over and over again. I keep heading back into that barn knowing that those hornets are going to sting me. But the sting of a hornet won’t kill me and neither will the sting of rejection.
This is what I want. This is who I am. Maybe a reject, but definitely a writer.