Rats. Just One, a little piece of flash fiction I wrote about a dying man who denies his lifelong desire to eat potato chips, has been denied publication within the virtual pages of Flash Me Magazine. Their rejection letter was of the personal variety, which is nice. Of the six editors who read the tale, three flat out rejected it, two said “maybe” and one gave a “yes” which I like to pretend was very, very aggressive and nearly forced the others to change their minds. Their comments were very constructive, and according to the letter I can repair and resubmit, which I think I’ll do. This little story’s going to mock them like an extended tongue.
It’s important to note that rejection is an important part of a writer’s career. I like to think that those who don’t care for my stories simply can’t understand them, that my writing is buried deep within layers and layers of complex symbolism and said individuals are trying to dig in with trowels instead of shovels. That’s what I tell myself, over and over again.
On a totally different note, I’m currently plowing through Stephen King’s Under the Dome, which is the first King I’ve read since high school. I’m enjoying it, but dude sure likes his religious zealots. Seems to me like crazy religious folk are always the villains in his stories — raping, murdering, pillaging and screaming to holy heaven from page to page to page.