And it's off!

Now, I've sent materials off for potential publication before. Several times. I've got a handful of letters of rejection to prove that I'm a real writer. But every time a story is shuffled off into the aether, there's a moment of existential angst. Who the hell am I to say that I have something worth saying? How audatious do I have to be to tell someone that I am better than innumerable third parties? How dare I ask someone to care?

Oddly enough, it's all the worse in a case like this... I'm not a blind submitter, I'm working with this open call which is, if not a different beast entirely, feels different; there aren't going to be as many submissions as for a major publication so there's not quite as much crowd for me to stand over; and frankly, I suspect 90% of what's sent in to be of a very specific and not especially interesting sort, so I think from the core of my chest-meats that I actually will stand out above this crowd. In short, I think I can win this thing!

... which means I'm all the more vulnerable. If The New Yorker doesn't want me, well, that's not especially surprising and at least I tried. If a trio of Internet celebreties doesn't think I'm good enough when I'm sure as shooting that I am... then I suck at something I thought I could do. Much more of a dissapointment.

Well, I got two more months to write two more stories and prove to the world (and myself) that Internet celebreties don't think I suck. And baby, the next story is going to be GRIM. Wish me luck.