I felt like history was repeating itself after I received my first rejection for the book I’m writing about my grief journey. Was I inflicted with a curse or a defective family gene?
I was a girl when my mother received her first rejection letter. Mine came via email, but back in 1982 the letters came through the U.S. Postal Service. Mom received 40-something rejection letters for a handful of magazine articles, but only about a dozen rejections survive. After she died, I found them in a cardboard box under the dining room buffet.
We keep our rejection letters like love notes from the boyfriend who told us goodbye. Why? Maybe we hope by reading the lines over and over again, we can figure out what went wrong. Was it the writing? The execution of the idea? Or just not a good fit for the publisher?
Memphis’ first snow of the season reminded me of my daddy, and got me to thinking about how differently we can mourn the loss of each parent.
Dad grew up in Connecticut and had a lot more experience with fierce winters than me. He once won a snowball fight so completely that I opened my coat and a wall of white spilled out.