Bleaurgh. My book was rejected, without a reason why. "I'd love to tell you why, but we're too swamped to do so." Grrr. And a little sadness, of course.
My old man reminds me that rejection is part of the business, that it's going to keep happening, and it just means I have to move on to the next publisher. That's logical, and correct, but it still doesn't make it any easier. It sucks. And it sucks bad. I is hating it.
So I immediately packed up a partial of the manuscript for another publisher that had asked for it. I was so nervous about it, even though they'd asked for the partial based on a really crappy synopsis (I'm horrible at writing synopsis). Stomach trembling, blood running cold, bordering into anxiety type of nervousness. But I hit send anyway, and sent those little bits of data off into the net.
Hoping, and wishing, and wanting to at least be told why it's not good enough if it gets rejected again. That way I can try to fix it before I send to someone else.
Meanwhile, I continue to piece together books 4 and 5 of my series, and transcribe book 3 from paper to Google docs. And pester my old man to be my beta reader and tell me what's wrong with book 2. All the while, I keep trying to pound out short stories, wanting to put some of those on a literary resume, so that I can maybe get someone to take a chance on me.
Current short story: animal right's activists break into a slaughter house/pig farm and find out it's a demon farm trying to corrupt people with evil pig products. *wiggles fingers* Sppppooooooookkkkyyyyy!
