There seems to have been a lot of heated complaints by disgruntled, wannabe writers over the last few weeks. Their heart-rending screeds are scattered all over the blogosphere. I have read many of them with my tongue wedged firmly between my teeth because most of these bloggers are so convinced that they are Wronged, that there's no point in telling them otherwise. I've only been querying since the end of January and haven't met with much joy. Yes, it can be dispiriting and depressing when I get served a rejection e-mail with my morning coffee, especially on the weekend (please, Mr or Ms Agent, save the bad news for Mondays, where it belongs) but you won't see me railing against the cruelty of the publishing industry on this blog (not yet, anyway). If I've learned anything in these past few months it's that it isn't worth getting my knickers in a twist about rejections. If I crumpled like some of these sensitive little souls every time I received a rejection, I'd be in a padded cell by now, writing my stories with crayons. I also can't help but think that if the sour grapes brigade spent as much time polishing their manuscripts and their queries as they do whining about the lack of appreciation for their masterpieces, they may get further than the Pit of Doom and Misery.
Yes, I know, I know, what I've written is nothing new but, hey, it's Monday, I'm dawdling over a love scene and I felt like having a rant here, rather than flaming on other peoples' blogs. Normal service will resume tomorrow if I can find something good to post for Teaser Tuesday.
Now, where did I put those crayons?