Sass and Ennui

You know, after all these years of pitching and being edited and waiting to hear about stories and waiting to hear about queries, I am gloriously unruffled by a rejection letter, or, really, rejection of any kind. This is a good thing. I remember when I used to keep printed letters (back when they still sent printed letters) and filled two photo albums with them.

“Dear Ms. Ryan, Thank you for submitting your Silly Book Idea That’s Embarrassing To Admit, Even For You, but unfortunately I do not have the contacts with the types of publishers who are seeking a book like that. I wish you well in your search. Sincerely, Random Agent from New York/London/Chicago/Cambridge/San Francisco.”

Now, I think to myself, “Oh, okay,” every time I get a kind response from an agent or publisher — I process the idea for little more than a blink. It’s because, duh, I know it’s a business — I’d rather find the perfect place for an idea than have someone say “Oh, okay,” and then push me in a direction I don’t want to go; I’d rather find the perfect agent who gets me and has the appropriate publishing contacts. This is, of course, the benefit of freelancing mostly for fun, and not as my core livelihood. Sure, I’d love to write books (please, please, please) but I think it’ll always be in addition to doing the ten million other things I do in a year.

But, yes, rejection rolls off me like water off a duck. Now, if only my personal standards wouldn’t hold me to perfection — I could then forgive myself like water off a duck. Did you know? Ducks, in general, are funny. They’re the new lolcat.

That intentional malapropism above is dedicated to my mom, like a banshee. And this stream-of-consciousness is dedicated to me.