It’s nice that some things still arrive by mail. Of course, I wish other things wouldn’t.
Every once in a while I receive some mail that causes me to look at the envelope with a furrowed brow. Oddly enough, it always takes me a few minutes to recognize my own writing — my own name and address written with my own right hand. Once I realize it though, I bite my lip and my heart skips a beat. It’s a response from a publisher.
Usually it was a good six months ago that I sent the proposal. I’ve mostly forgot.
The last time a letter arrived from a publisher, though, it was the same day I had worked on finding and sending proposals to a several more publishers. (I’m trying to get a children’s book published — a snowboarding tale I wrote several years ago. I’m afraid my boys will outgrow it before I ever find a publisher.)
I ripped open the envelope, and it started… “We regret to inform you…” Another letter that kindly suggests that it isn’t my writing that’s the problem, but they just don’t have room for my suggested book.
I’ve learned to look this mail, though. It’s not good news, but it’s acknowledgement. Most publishers don’t even respond, so a letter back is a good day at the mailbox.