I didn’t think I’d get it, but damn. Found out today — online! of course! — my application for a grant to help fund my book didn’t make the cut.
As they say, (they are right) — rejection is, to even consistently income-producing writers, like blood to a surgeon — a messy, unpleasant and necessary part of almost every workday.
I clicked a tab to be told my application last October was “unsuccessful.” You know a ton of others got the same message, too. It doesn’t help.
Humph. Not to to be taken literally, mind you, not to heart. Not to dwell on. Not to obsess on. Right?
I really so much preferred the old rejections — I think this is the third time this group has dissed my app — thanks to the delicious, predictable and utterly useless revenge of taking their envelope and falsely chirpy letter and crushing it into a miserable little ball. Then throwing it, hard, at whatever surface seems most right — the mirror, the computer, the wall.
Feh. Back to work.