A Kick in the Guts Always Hurts

I doubled over; the wind knocked out of my lungs.

Gasping for air, all I could see were the others standing around with smiles, taunting me with their laughter.

Another kick in the guts, well, a punch actually, that I would get used to occuring regularly.

The perpetrator walked off. His band of thugs yapped at his heels like puppy dogs, blindly following for no reason. That was life at boarding school if you were not one of the boys. I only learned how to be one of the boys in my final years there.

Roll forward fifty-five years, and it felt almost bad. Two rejections on the same day!

Allow me to explain.

Leaving home

Leaving home always brings trepidation. This is true for school, especially boarding school, and for that first job. A couple of months ago, I was all fired up after a successful week on Vocal. I received an award from one of the week's top stories—wahoo! I was now on fire!

Not literally, but maybe I should have been. I decided that now I would brave the big wide world of publishing. I'm venturing away from the safety of my family on Vocal. I'm trying to get a story and a poem published for money.

By money I am not talking sheep stations – I would have been happy with $100. What budding writer wouldn’t be?

That little voice inside my head said, “You will be sorry, don’t mess with a good thing. You are happy where you are leave well enough alone.”

The other little voice said, "You woos, go get 'em. Think about your motto: 'If you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got.”

So I sent off three poems and two stories to two different publications.

Bang, bang you're dead!

Time goes so quickly when you are having fun. A broken wrist and two broken ribs before Christmas. Then, Christmas and New Year; my least favorite times. After that, weeks of COVID.

Then, a few days ago, it happened. It was another one-two punch, like the ones I remembered from boarding school. They weren't physical punches. They were those horrible feelings when the blood drains from your head.

"We hate your poems. We won't say why. Just, don't send us any more drivel." We don’t like our time to be wasted.”

O.K, I thought not to worry, I can take rejection. At least you tried, so that is something. A little bit of feedback would have been nice. Maybe:

“They were too long."

“They were not formatted properly; we don’t rhyme poetry.”

“You have to understand we don’t like poems that talk about nature or that paint pictures in people’s minds.” Anything.

I thought to myself, I wonder what happened to the two stories I sent to the other place?

I sent them an email very politely asking them if they had a chance to look at them.

I got a response within an hour. Wow! I thought.

It was a short-lived happiness. Automatically generated, it said, "We don't respond to inquiries. If you haven't heard from us in a year, assume your submission was unacceptable and has been destroyed."

I thought the first one was bad! A year, I could be dead by then. I took solace in the story I had written about Vincent Van Gough:

Two Eureka Feelings

Earlier this week, I was licking my wounds. Yesterday, I spent hours on my story stats ($0.04 here and $0.01 there). I had also read a story by Matt about his experience on Medium, called "I refuse to write for 2 pennies.”

I had two Eureka feelings. A eureka feeling is a sudden insight. It comes when you couldn't understand something before. It's also known as an "Aha!" moment. It's often linked to scientific discoveries or students. They work for years on a thesis, and then the penny drops.

Eureka #1: There is no place like home

I am not sure I can handle the rejection associated with the writing side of ‘safe sites’ like Vocal and Medium. Some loyal followers on Vocal read my stories and poems and tell me they like them.

I assume they would not read or give them a like if they didn't like them. Maybe that is a big assumption; they just say they like it when they don’t. If that is true, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.

I am safe in my little space churning out stories about things I like.

I also read a story by Rachel Deeming about critiques:

It made me think, wouldn’t it be good if there was a place where you could get an honest critique on your writing? I would even be happy to pay a little bit for a genuine critique in the interest of improvement.

As I replied to Rachel, getting a genuine critique is hard. And if you do, does it really go beyond the reviewer's personal interests?

Doesn’t it so often come down to personal taste? “I don’t like stories about x, y, or z,” so I don’t like what you gave me.

Eureka Feeling # 2: Where does all the money go?

According to the internet, Medium and Vocal are doing very well thank you! A writer on Medium with 1000 followers reportedly makes $50 a month. On Vocal, Vocal + members get $6.00 per 1000 views.

I can only dream of having 1000 followers or 1000 views on 100 stories (combined), let alone these figures.

It's easy to say, "I write for the love." But there is a thrill in getting boosted on Medium (I can only imagine having never been boosted) or when you have a top story on Vocal, which felt so good.

At least with Vocal, they give back to their community. They do this through competitions and weekly incentives.

So, maybe staying on these sites with a few followers is safe. Their comments are encouraging and make you feel good.

What if one of these sites limited payouts to writers and creators?

Limit earnings so that the excess can be used to reward and encourage the little guys for their efforts.

If you earn thousands on such sites, you are good enough to tackle the big wide world of publishing. These sites could then use some of the cream to support up-and-coming creators. This would help them become more skilled and get past the acceptance of "I do it for love, so the money is not important.”

Wouldn’t that then be a true community?

What do you think, or am I totally crazy now?

For now, I will recoil and live in the safe environment I call home for my writing.

Till next time,

Calvin