I wrote a piece of flash fiction several years ago. It got under my skin, and it hasn't worked its way to the surface. Enough time has passed where I don't know if its good or bad. But I do know two things:
- It's important to me.
- Nobody wants it.
That hasn't stopped me from submitting it periodically. It was first rejected by Glimmer Train for its emerging writers contest. Then rejected by Glimmer Train a second time for its micro fiction contest. Wish I had those fifty bucks back.
It was then rejected a third time by a literary journal I can no longer remember. And a fourth time, today, by another. I'm waiting to hear back from a fifth publication.*
I write this to you, dear reader, with no malice, no bitterness, and no self-pity. This kind of rejection fuels me. I'm not who I was when I wrote that story four(?) years ago. I was punching above my weight like I had something to prove.
I'm literary -- jab-cross, jab-hook -- I have vocabulary and a world view -- jab-cross, duck, cut -- I don't have an MFA but I can say a lot with every little -- hook, hook, duck, jab-cross.
That writer was brave, but he was misguided. He had no technique. Maybe I'm still misguided. I don't know. I'm still not published. But I've learned from every glove Rejection has landed on me. One day, I'm going to drop his sorry ass to the mat.
* I promised myself if the story didn't get picked up on the fifth try, I'd publish it here. And I'm keeping that promise.