So there you are, all positive vibes. Telling yourself today’s the day, carpe diem. Open your email, all bated breath, and there it is—your umpteenth rejection. Now, some anonymous assistant to the assistant editor has knocked your dick in the dirt. It’s another existential crisis.

You shuffle, head down, back to your people. The tribe of Also Wrote. You’ve been here so many times, you’re on the express lane through all the levels of Rejection. Denial, anger? Yep. Bargaining? Done that. Depression? Got a script. Acceptance? Never!

This writing jones. It started in your juvenile years. You read the book, watched the movie, and thought, I could’ve done that better. Back then, you called it a dream. But what’s a dream if not an addiction? All the burning lamps, the midnight oil.

 You’re an undiscovered Joan Collins. The editor at Tumbleweed Gazette says so. That piece on the old lady’s Pomeranian? You were channeling your inner dog. And mom agrees; you’ve got talent, and moms don’t lie.

You figured a winner is going to have skin in the game. So you ponied up for an Apple laptop. You splurged on a printer that can print anything – except what you spent on it. You went crazy with the 32 lb. paper, sure to impress the most jaded editor.

This latest story. Gothic horror, but with a sense of humor. One of a kind. And the crayons? Highlighting all the emotion-provoking words? Trending. Inspired by that obituary you crafted for your uncle. Sublime. Wasn’t he a failed writer?

You’ve covered the bases. Somebody suggested observing people to grasp human psychology. You went to Walmart’s Black Friday. It don’t get any more real.  Remember that feature about the Girl Scouts? Bitches would roll a dead man for cookie dough. Your wit sparkled like a cubic zirconia. So maybe a change of scenery. Join the local writers club. Who are these people? Hard pass.

Back to that slum lord, your desk. Middle drawer. Check out the studio portraits. Full frontal, both profiles. Maybe the one with the pipe. Cerebral. Short bio (alternate length for awards). Never forget to thank all the little people. Pulitzer acceptance speech. Top right drawer. Finished, polished, practiced. And that novel rattling around your mental attic? You’ll be big backing meatballs with the Swedes.

The biggest word in the English language, IF. If someone would accept your efforts. If you could get a foot in that proverbial door. If you could break out of the herd. If you could reach your demographic.

Just as you’re getting ready to throw yourself on your pen, the rotating fan sweeps by. A page flips over in Writers Market. What’s this? Another list of publishers. Accepting submissions? Crisis averted. This is the one. Tomorrow, your first byline. Step away from File 13.

All those editors who rejected you? They’re going to look like talent scouts for Decca Records. That keyboard beckons. You’re back, at one with Grammarly. Dying to get published.

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Michael Pauchet is a writer who has perfected the fine art of rejection. When not refreshing his inbox, he can be found stockpiling metaphors, attending Walmart anthropology sessions, and trying to convince his mom that talent counts as publication credit.