In 2019, I received 96 rejections from literary magazines. These eight stories were accepted and published:
- Always Running (Stain’d)
- Cities of the Future (Suspect Press)
- Satellite Presence (Retreat West)
- Running Bear (F(r)iction)
- Circle of Blazers (Chaleur)
- Cloudscape (The Ghost Story)
- Love and Death Under the Rain (Red Rock Review)
- Little Paw (Infinite Worlds)
While I’m proud of all these publications, I’m not really sure what the point is in continually polishing my work and sending it out into the world. Despite eight successes, I’m still wearing the same shirts and driving the same car and going to bed at the same time every night. Rejection hasn’t wrecked me, but acceptance hasn’t affected me much, either. Some of the above publications are beautiful to hold in my hands–F(r)iction in particular is a gorgeous magazine–and I’m honored to have my work find a place in all their pages. And yet–so what? A few people, here and there, have presumably read my stories, but their reactions are unknown to me beyond a few thumbs-up on social media. Do they make it through to the last line? Do their eyes go still as they make some inner connection? Or do they skim a few paragraphs and move on?
But it’s worth remembering that I’m not really writing for that unknowable audience. I’m writing for a few close friends, and for myself, and I’d keep doing it even if I never get another acceptance. Although it would be nice to be able to splurge on some new shirts at some point. Bring it on, 2020.