Once upon a time, I was sixteen and I wanted to be a writer. (I still do!) At that time, I only had one condition. Before getting published, I wanted an agent. (Not a common thing in France, although we slowly but surely are getting there.)
This week, I received my first agent rejection ever! And strangely, I feel kinda good. Although I knew the journey toward publishing was long, it’s one I decided to take many years ago. And the rejection felt like a step forward. A tangible thread in a road of intangible moments of waiting for an answer. You spent hours upon hours working on a project, and sometimes not having the final product in your hands feels like you haven’t accomplished anything, and you start to think that the hours spent were useless.
I’ve been writing for years—I wrote so many things that I don’t like, a lot of practice novels, a lot of half-finished projects that I wasn’t really proud of—but I think I reached a point where the journey is starting to feel real.
And for now, I’m enjoying the feeling.
Rejections are a part of the game and experiencing the process feels satisfying somehow.
And it makes me want to push harder.
I have a rule. Some sort of mantra. Writing is a lot of hard work, the consistency to pursue and a passion I take seriously—an ache I want to turn into a career.
But, rejections only mean one thing.
I won’t take no for an answer.
I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep querying. I’ll keep writing.