If there’s one thing that can be said about this year, it’s that it contained some good firsts. My first time to ever be fired from a job. The first year we won’t exchange gifts because everyone is bankrupt and/or unemployed (fuck you, capitalism). My first completed manuscript. And now a great one to end out the year: my first rejection letter from a literary agent. Rah!

Last night I was talking with a friend about how this is by far the shittiest year I have yet to live through and lo! My gmail notifier pops up with a name I don’t recognize and little snippet of the message.

“Dear Mr. McCracken, Thank you so much for your query. Unfortunately…”

And my reaction? Laughter. Because I’m fresh out of anger and disappointment and because, honestly, it’s a step in the right direction. The fact that I’ve made it far enough to be rejected is probably the best feeling I’ve had in three years.

Wait, I take that back. Halloween night. The hot guy that hit on me and asked for my number. Yeah, that was pretty badass.

Point being, the fact that I received a response at all is a good sign. And since she actually took the time to personalize that rejection with my name makes it all the better. It means that I’m not absolutely crazy in thinking I have a chance at making some miniscule mark on the world.

I’m not discouraged. I’m not distraught. I’m not doubting myself. I’m going to hang it in a place where I can look at it every day and remember to smile.


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