As a writer I should be comfortable with the idea of rejection. Yet somehow it always catches me, picks me up, and slams me on the floor. I lose my breath for a minute, or hour, before regaining consciousness. It is not the rejection per say, but the narrative that I create surrounding that rejection. I cannot simply accept the rejection as is, a statement that I would not fit into the environment in which I believed I would fit. I instead create the backstory, it is not only the employer, the publication, or the friend rejecting me, it is the greater community at large which does not feel as if I am worthy. I become the martyr in my own play, hated by all and on the path to ruin and homelessness. This narrative creation within my egomaniacal conscious mind can be harnessed for good as well as evil however. That backstory in which I recently indulged can be used as fodder for a short story. I can watch myself cycle through the stages of grief and rejection, of wallowing in self-pity and then meditate, have a smoothie, and sit down to write. I can cultivate gratitude for my amazing life, as it is at this very moment (minus the deer flies and humidity) and sit down to write a post. A close friend of mine says that “rejection is God’s protection,” and I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment (when I am not in the midst of being rejected). I have been ignoring that small voice inside that is telling me to write, to rest, to explore creativity, to pray, to hang upside down and then nap. I am attempting to fit my square pegged self into a round hole and wonder why I get stuck. So dear reader (or mom), I come to you rejected. But also relieved that the narrative did not play out, and that I can now head to Amazon.com and purchase a Gopro because I have an idea which is filling me with giddy anticipation. More on that soon!