Yesterday Diane and I went skiing, which was a lot of fun, even though the lift lines were very long. (We thought we were avoiding the crowds by going on a Friday, but apparently everyone else in Wisconsin had that same idea.)

Today my body aches all over, especially my legs. My head is also in pain. This makes me feel like a wuss, because four hours of skiing did this to me? I feel old and weak.

Then, today, I received a second rejection email for the horror story. As I said last time, I can’t tell if it’s a good story or not. I feel like I ought to just keep trying until someone says something positive about it, but then I think I should just throw it away and forget about it.

The magazine that rejected me today has a thing on their website that says:

we cannot offer personalized feedback on each story. If we say, “send more,” however, it does mean that we hope to see something else from you.

Well of course they did not tell me this, which I’m taking to mean “Please do not ever contact us again with your boring predictable garbage writing.”

How on Earth do people do this for a living? I’m starting to wonder if the past 20 years of writing stories and novels is all just a fraudulent exercise of the ego with some sycophantic niceties from friends and family thrown around out of sheer obligation.


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