Well, Tor rejected my novella of Gaia's Hands.

The myth of becoming a recognized writer goes like this: a writer writes original work, writes what they love as their friends exhort them to, and after a double-digit number of rejections, finally gets published and makes big splashes in the publishing world. You may recognize this as the storyline of J.K. Rowling, but it's been told about almost every big writer ("Do you know that Big Name Writer got rejected 23 times?").

I'm not feeling very optimistic right now. I've been rejected somewhere over 100 times; I've lost count. I write, revise, submit, and fail. I cling onto the hope that this time would be the time I get published.

You've heard this all before. I've said it all before.

I'm supposed to write for just myself, and that makes no sense to me. Why would someone write several novels -- 80,000 pages apiece -- and edit, and polish, so that nobody will read it? If I did this all for myself, I'd write short romances with damn near zero for plots. I'd never get them published because by "romance" I would mean "romance" and not sex.

The optimist in me feels crushed for trying something new. The pessimist in me says "I told you so." The realist in me can't figure out how "writing for myself" justifies writing novels nobody reads.

Realistically, I may have to stop writing novels. I don't know if I will have the motivation to write much if I give up novels, because the possibility of being heard (an antidote to a childhood of not being listened to or believed) was my major motivator, and the reason that not being able to be published is so heartbreaking.

I know I've come back before, but right now the thrill is gone.