Currently, as I am typing, Meleah (my lovely roommate) is reading a short story I wrote and have been editing. She is giggling. This is a good thing. It is meant to be (sort of) humorous. I am therefore smiling. I frown every time she points out a typo, however. I’m up to 6 so far.
Just sent that story out to about a half-dozen journals, and sent two other fiction stories out to another half-dozen each. Sent an essay out to 7 journals, and I’m planning on putting the final touches on another essay to send out to journals tomorrow as well.
I full well expect lots of brilliantly written form-letter rejections, but hey–I’ve always wanted a few more of those, and if you don’t take the chance, you’ll never get lucky, right? It’s like wishing you’d win the lottery but never buying a ticket. Not that I’m advocating buying lottery tickets. Sure, it’ll help your state’s infrastructure or something (I guess), but you can also contribute to that fund through this yearly thing called taxes.
Tired of not having very many things published, so figured I should start submitting more. At least then I can have a reason to mope around (if I get rejected). Otherwise, it’s super lame.