As much as I'd prefer a request for a manuscript, I'm pleased that Kathi Paton at least responded to my e-query, even if it was a form rejection. There's just something about all the unanswered e-mails that bothers me, like I'm standing in the middle of a crowd, waving and shouting, but the agents don't pay me any mind.
The fact that I am going to have a short story published in a literary magazine next month does not thrill me. No great honor, and it was a case of rushing off a submission as soon as The Chicago Review turned down the same piece. It was so easy to submit, just send the article as a download, and the editor accepted it within two weeks.
The journal is put out by a non-profit organization, which means they don't pay. I don't even know if they'll send me a free copy of the publication. Instead of waiting to hear from the Indiana Review, I was in too much of a hurry and didn't think.
Will it be a worthwhile credit? The literary journal has been in publication for fifteen years, coming out quarterly, but I have this nagging sense that they might take just about anything to fill their sixty pages. Too many rejections, I guess, have warped my self-esteem, or maybe it really is a poor excuse for a publishing credit.
I'll find out soon enough. Once I finish my current WIP, polish it up to a high gloss, and start the query process, I'll slap that credit in my one line bio and the sky's the limit. Or the ground. The ground might be the limit. Unless I've only dug a hole to fall into.
There's still two other short pieces out there to other rags that are quite respectable. There's always hope. And isn't that what the Easter season is all about, after all?
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