During a lull in the Independence Day festivities last night, I checked my email. Not my finest idea, but I have a slight obsession with keeping that little icon clear of a number. I don’t know why I am like this, but I am.

To the soundtrack of fireworks, I saw a query reply. Opening it, I knew what to expect. After a gazillion queries and only 4 full manuscript requests, I had a pretty good idea.

And there it was. A form rejection. Like so many, it praised my writing, gave me the old it’s not you, it’s me- not right for my list, didn’t feel strongly enough about it to want to pursue farther, or my favorite from years ago- I’m tempted, but going to have to pass. No matter how it’s phrased, it’s still a rejection.

Now, the logical side of me knows that I am that special kind of masochist who is pursuing traditional publishing at a time when traditional publishing at large is a 30-yard rollaway dumpster filled to the brim with every crappy metaphor on the planet.

And yet, here I am practicing a modern version of self-flagellation clinging so tightly to that hope of “only one yes” that I’ve bent it past recognition.

For those of you who innocently ask- Oh, you’re a writer? Are you published?

To whom I have to answer- not yet. I am working on it. Still working on it 5 manuscripts and countless years later. Always working toward that goal of seeing my book in print.

I’m not ready to quit, but it is hard. So hard. It’s a marathon not a sprint, those in the know say. And they say it over and over. Don’t give up.

Which is an easy concept to grasp, but hard in practice.

Every rejection feeds the imposter syndrome monster. They are cuts to my confidence and will to write. They feed my writers block and apathy. And I’ve received so many of them that I feel like I’m bleeding out.

Am I the best writer on the planet? No, but I now look at the publishing information of everything I read and some of the traditionally published things I’ve read lately? Yeah, I do have enough of an ego to say- I’ve written better.

I know publishing is a game, dependent on the market, and that ever-elusive mistress of public desire. Agents want to represent what they can sell. Publishers want to print books that sell. They want a guaranteed return on investment in a market where chaos rules.

And I want to be a part of this?

Luckily, I have options. I can self-publish. I can be happy simply having my book in the world. I can look into hybrid publishing. Both of which means being my own marketer (to be honest all publishing roads lead to marketing). Which is where I get stuck.

I think my stories are good. I’m constantly working to make them better. I think they are as worthy of publication as many of the books released these days.

However, personality-wise I’m more of the here’s-my-book-if-you-want-to-read-it-you-don’t-have-to-but-I’d-love-you-to-ok-thanks-bye kind of person rather than the here’s-my-book-you-can-buy-it-here-and-don’t-forget-to-leave-a-review one.

I’m working on it.

While I do, I’ll be in my writing dungeon licking my most recent wound.