Being an unpublished author is tough. What exactly are you? Am I? Can you really call yourself an author or writer if you’ve never done it professionally? I received my 44th rejection note today and immediately resubmitted the story to another market. Science Fiction Writers of America requires three published short stores in a professional market for inclusion in their society. I don’t have one. And the one I’m hopeful might just make the cut is in a semi-pro market. I recently ran across an open writing contest where writers don’t get paid, you just get to submit. I think they are over one hundred submissions already. What’s that mean? Means there’s a ton of writers out there and each one is clamoring with another to be noticed and their writing accepted, not just by magazines, but by a readership. Bottom line, it’s tough and loaded with competition.
So, why post this load of self-deprecation? Just venting. And to make the statement that despite never having been published, and the road ahead is loaded with disappointment, frustration and despair, still I write and still I submit. Not for dreams of being the next King or creating the next Potter, but because the actual act is pleasant. Of dreaming of some far away world and throwing it the page and for that wonderful feeling of someone actually liking it. I have to remind myself of that every time the “sorry, gonna pass” or “just not right for me” or “best of luck placing this elsewhere” comes through the email.
I don’t know if I can call myself a writer, novelist or author. I only know that I can’t quit. Not if I love it despite the heartache that comes with it. I have seven stories out for consideration and about to go work on the eighth right now. That is after dinner, watching peppa pig and putting the kids to sleep.