Ships aren’t made for Harbor

A Writer’s Odyssey: Collecting Rejections as Badges

I felt adrift. Like I was on a wooden raft paddling aimlessly in search of land. But finding nothing except indifferent waves ready to sink me.

My journey began with an idea for a short story. I published my first fictional short story on February 17th, 2020, and set sail across the ocean of fiction writing.

First, I stayed near the harbor for 3 years, and sent the stories to friends. A tether to keep me grounded and safe in their feedback yet suffocating.

“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
The quote rings in my ears as my eyes turn towards the ocean ahead of me.

With the same primal call of “Is there anyone out there?” felt by the first humans to set sail across an ocean, I cut the tether and drifted into open waters.

I didn’t know where I was going or for what purpose. Joining writing groups and finding peers online. We were boats. A convoy of dreams navigating stormy waters. It wasn’t long until we started submitting to competitions.

Soon we felt the first dehydrating impact of our submissions. Each denial ripped off siding, cut the sails, and splintered wood. The water would seep through the scars and sink the best of us, leaving driftwood as omens for incoming travelers.

The rest had either sunk or found their land.

I was alone.

Over 9 months, I submitted 15 times. Denial after denial piled on. Emails with the subject line “denied” with automated replies.

“We’re looking for something different.”
“Although it does not suit the needs of the magazine at this time, we wish you luck with placing it elsewhere.”
“We appreciate the opportunity to read it, and I wish you the best of luck with all your publishing endeavors.”

My boat was shaken and shredded. Water was seeping through the scars pulling me under until I saw it. A sea bird and the land accompanying it.

After 14 denials, 1 acceptance. I had found land.

In a sea of red rejections, there was a single slice of green.

As I pulled ashore, holding my first published short story, I looked at my boat.

It’s war-torn shape and rotting planks. Others around me were polishing their appearance, removing any signs of struggle. But I kept mine. I collected the blood-red rejections like badges, a sign I endured the storm to reach here.

My short story wouldn’t have been published in an anthology if I didn’t take the chance. You miss all the shots you don’t take. I used to get stuck on looking at the entire ocean.

An endless sea colored by the bloodied carcasses of rejected stories.

Even though one of my stories was accepted, it wasn’t enough.

But I was looking at it wrong.

I needed to shift my perspective.

Before, there was only a sea of red rejected stories.

If you ask me, the accepted stories are winning.

PS: I finished my 159th short story this past weekend.

Check it out here. Week 159: Punctuated by Fire (super.site)