I throw open the squeaky door. Mister stirs and grunts from his nap in the swing but I ignore him. I’m on a mission. The maillady came and I’m expecting a response from a publisher. I step out the door and tiptoe around the puddles on the front porch. I will not get wet socks like yesterday. I hate wet socks. I open the lid of the mailbox, reach my hand in, and pull out the cold stack. Donation request from Saint Someone or Other. Bill. Coupon for formula I don’t use. Then, there it is. I tear it open. Inside is a 1/4 sheet of paper. A 1/4 sheet! I don’t even have to read it. My husband’s stash of Girl Scout Somoas doesn’t stand a chance.
How do you deal with a rejection letter?