Sixth grade softball tournament. My teacher, Mr. Watson (who had absolutely no soul when he subjected children to this) let the two best ball players pick the teams. Can you guess what happened? Awkward and chubby, I watched as the line of those who needed to get picked grow smaller and smaller until I was the last one standing there. The last one picked for the team.
His name was Dan. He was the most beautiful 8th grade boy my 8th grade girl eyes had ever seen. He found out through the grapevine that I liked him. I found out through the grapevine (in record time might I add) that he most certainly did not like me back.
I just received my tenth rejection form letter from another literary agent. And do I even need to say it? I do? Fine.
Ouch. Rejected. Epic.
So I look out to the vast array of cyberspace to find solace in my pain. I found Lynn Flewelling's words the most comforting. She said, "So when that first rejection shows up in your mailbox, toast yourself with a tall glass of something very nice. It’s proof that you’re off the porch and running with the big dogs now."
So I cracked open my finest can of diet caffeine-free coke (because that's how I roll) and toasted my 10th rejection. I know that every rejection makes the one epic "yes" I will receive one day that much sweeter. And Mr. Watson, here's hoping you are out there somewhere being picked last for the 60 years and older senior citizen's softball league. Karma, dude.