Fiction

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I'm not a famous writer, or anyone of interest. I'm an ordinary Christian dealing with the cold sting of rejection. Rejection, something we all as humans suffer from time to time. Whether you're an unbeliever, or someone that has faith in God, no one is able to escape from this emotion. Funny how religion and doctrines divide humanity, but one single emotion is able to unite us all.

I received my first taste in junior high when the girl had feelings for said no to my request to take her to a dance. From there I experienced in every part of my life. As I got older, it stalked me.

In high school, I had the vain notion that I would become a successful novelist by the age of 25. I'm 26 now, single, making minimum wage, and nowhere near reaching my goal. I tried following my guidance counselor's advice to the letter: take college courses that will lead to a promising career; easier said than done.

After I flunked out of college, the only job I managed to land was working in an old, stuffy bookstore in the museum district: how ironic. The closest I ever came to having my own book in print involved stocking them on the shelf. My disdain for the publishing industry grew.

To make matters worse, the pile of rejection letters on my desk next to my computer continued to grow, as if mocking me while I hacked away at novel after novel, running it over with a fine tooth comb, only for it to be a casualty of slush pile and returned ignored; unread. Imagine the disappointment, the sheer agony of defeat on my face as I reached into the mail expecting good news, but instead seeing my hard work staring back at me, cursing me in laughter.

Oh, how I envied those lucky few whose manuscripts slipped through the cracks and after years of obscurity, one fine day, a publisher came across it and discovered a best seller. I envisioned the same for me. To my dismay, that was a pipe dream.

In the weeks to follow, things in my life began to fall apart when that boring, mockery of a job at the bookstore ended. I guess all the complaints about my negative, self-destructive attitude ticked off enough customers. I had no other option but to return to the nest: living with my parents.

The humiliation cut deep, deeper than my eroding anger that festered, a time bomb waiting to explode, ticking away until reaching a final climax. I packed all my things of value: a 5 year old that needed several upgrades. It connected to the internet, allowing me instant access to rejections via email.

Aside from spending all of my free time on mulling over possible stories to write about and waste my time on, I spent the other scanning publisher's websites for submission guidelines. The ones that accepted online submissions either were out of business, or not accepted scripts at that time. I wasn't about to spend money on printing paper, ink, envelopes, and stamps to mail a script and wait fives months for a rejection.

While taking out the trash one evening, I happen to meet the next-door neighbor: Jon, an older man in his late forties, distinguished that seemed out of place compared to these crappy apartments. He was on his porch penciling thoughts on a legal pad. I tried to resist sticking my nose in his business.

"Writing anything interesting?" I asked in a joking manner, trying not to sound like a complete idiot.

For a second he didn't look up from the paper, or glance my way. As I was about to step inside he mumbled something. I pretended to hear and nodded, playing the sound in my head trying to make sense of it.

I lingered by the door, an uncomfortable feeling growing in my gut. I had to say something, anything to alleviate the feeling, a bad habit I hadn't been able to kick since adolescence.

"Yeah, I'm working on a book right now, nothing major, kicking around a few ideas," I exhaled in one fell swoop.

His ears perked. Jon sat up attentively, his horned rimmed glasses showing above the paper.

"Don't want to burst your bubble, but only a few get chosen, those that make it through are the ones that make the company money. It's all about marketability. Some have it, some don't" Jon exclaimed.

"I've been trying to tell myself that for 10 years now."

"Don't get me wrong, there's more to it than that. But, in the end, it's all about the money. I made it to the top once, fame and fortune will corrupt, despite how good your intentions are. In the end, all you have left is nothing but former glories." He said.

"I guess you've got one up on me." I replied, moving into the narrow doorway. Before leaving him on the porch, I muttered something lame, "you have a good evening."

I bypassed my overworked, balding father asleep in his recliner, mother on her lime green sofa doing crossword puzzles to my little hole in the wall room. After I kicked my sneakers off, peeled my tube socks, I plopped down on the bed. There, my mind began to drift, contemplating the intricate mysteries of fate and destiny. I wondered would I ever make it to the top of the New York times best selling list, or any list for that matter.

As I fell asleep, I wondered if my dreams and desires would make a difference or not. Yet, I had to remember God was in control, regardless of how my writing career turned out. In the end, that gave me a small feeling of peace and comfort.

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