I have had a leg injury for several months, and my running schedule has been spotty. This was my first week back to running every other day. This morning I ran three miles, outside, in under thirty minutes. Granted, it was only by three seconds, but I still met the goal I set out to reach. Is it a miraculous time? Hardly. Are there better runners? Absolutely. Are there worse runners? You bet. But no one else matters. I felt accomplished. I did what I set my mind to do.
There is a lesson in this way of thinking. I figured it out this morning as my beloved mutt set a ridiculous pace, and my lungs felt like they were exploding in my chest. From this point forward, this is how I will approach my writing. Form rejections, personalized rejections, I've-decided-not-to-pursue-this-project-any-further rejections may flare up an emotional injury, but they cannot take away the feeling of accomplishment.
I wrote a novel. And I'm writing another. How many people get to say that? (Considering all the writers I have met on Twitter, quite a lot, actually.)
Rejections are a part of a writer's life. When you have a goal - a goal you've been dreaming about for years - a rejection can feel like a kick to the stomach that you gladly lie on the ground to receive. As I struggle to breath, I'll remember that I still did it, and I am a writer regardless if I am injured for the rest of my life.
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