Beware the Mailbox

I'm beginning to hate my mailbox.

Sure, during the day I have the odd daydream about getting "the call" and jumping up and down and announcing it to my whole office, but I can usually push that out of my head with a nice fantasy about Chris Conrad or Brendan Fraser, er and uh Mr. Pink Pen *grin*.

But at night, as I turn on to my street, I see it, hanging there innocently at the bottom of my stairs. My mailbox. And I dread opening it, just in case it's sitting there, waiting for me. The envelope addressed to me in my own handwriting, that holds inside the letter. The one that says, "thanks for sending your work. it was crap. don't send me anything ever again."

Because I really, really don't want to get that letter. I can't imagine any writer wants to get that letter. And yet, more often than not, we get that letter. Why do we put ourselves out there like that? It's so incredibly scary and risky and emotionally-baring. And yet, being published, our holy grail, is sitting there, waiting for us, so we keep aiming for it, despite the booby-traps and the giant rocks.

That's it,really. I want to be published. I never thought I would. I never thought I'd actually get published. I always saw myself on the other side of the table, as the editor. But now that I've actually finished a piece of work, and I had an editor ask to see it, the possibility is there. I can see it, sitting there on a giant rock, waiting for me. If I could just make it through the wall of spikes and over the giant stone floor that if I step on wrong could disintegrate into nothingness, I'll get it...