Rejection slips have been appearing what seems like daily in my mailbox. At the sight of each self-addressed stamped envelope my wife offers an "oh, honey." I try and respond with something about how it's the nature of the business, or the circle of life, something like that which doesn't reveal that the sight of those white #10's doesn't make me a little sick inside, that each one doesn't steal a little of the joy out of life.
During July and August I sent out 8 stories to 3 literary journals each, putting a total of 24 submissions "out there." Flooding the market, you might say, but I can only buck up enough for the business of submitting every so often and when I do I ought to get out as much out as I can. Of these, one was rejected immediately because they (Chelsea Mag) aren't reading new fiction until January of next year, and I then sent another one out. So let's do the math:
8 x 3 = 24 +1 = 25
And so far I have received a total of 10 rejections.
25 - 10 = 15
Fifteen submissions remain in circulation, so there's still a chance.
The good news is that journals that weren't reading during the summer will be reading now. Many more markets are available now. It will soon be time to steel myself for another round of submissions.