Some writers compare
writing a story to raising a child.
You labour to bring
into the world something that is in an intimate way a part of
yourself. You work tirelessly to make the very best of it as you
revise and edit. Finally the day arrives when you can nurture it no
longer and you are obliged to send it out in to the world to make its
own way.
The first time you
submit for editorial consideration a story that was hard to write but
of which you are particularly proud is terrifying. Will someone else
recognise it for the remarkable piece of individuality that it is? Will your carefully selected judge be prevented from ever seeing
your masterpiece by slush readers who only feel safe passing upstairs
a traditional formulaic offering that's pretty similar to what their
editor has approved before?
If the editor actually
gets to see it, will he possibly find faults that you never suspected? Might he even mistake your diamond for cubic zirconium?
In such a parlous state your
correspondent currently finds himself, having finally sent off his
latest piece just yesterday. And I love it.
All the best, little one!
Okay. A twenty-four day personal rejection from a pro-rates publisher. We can live with that for a start.
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