You know how you can hang with your writer friends, and you can bemoan about writing and publishing and all that, and they don’t comment that you’re a complete lazy ass? And you know how you can bemoan to some non-writer friends (and if they have uteruses), they usually commiserate and say, “In time, Hellion, in time”?

And then you have the person, who when they ask you how the writing’s going, you confess you didn’t write last weekend (naps, you know) and you haven’t sent a query of late, because well, the other agent hasn’t gotten back to you, that person gives you the sort of look you haven’t seen since your fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Long caught you mooning the boys out of the girls’ bathroom.

You know, the look that indicates they’re not buying your excuse. And you’re completely full of crap.

I mean, it almost makes one tempted not to mention your writing at all, but then they’ll ask, “What’d you do this weekend?” and if you respond, “Nothin’”, which is a legitimate answer (and activity, I might add), you realize that was the wrong answer as well. Especially when they rattle back their list of activities, and you sarcastically wonder when they’re going to work in that missionary trip to Uganda while they’re at it. (I mean, really, as if escapism and napping is a crime.)

Anyway, so admittedly I started querying of late, not because I’ve revised my current finished WIP and therefore this is actually the next step; but because I wanted to be able to report to This Person, when asked, and say, “Yep, I sent off X number of queries this week, and got back X number of rejections.” (Unfortunately since they have that Mrs. Long personality, it will probably not impress them, but I’ll give it a shot. I have a little folder of my rejection letters, numbered, with a little grid where I made careful little marks of how many queries I’ve sent out this week.)

Not that I send out shot-gunned queries, mind. They’re all personalized. And sent at completely different times. Some a full hour apart.

I have been amazed at how quickly I’ve gotten some responses back, being that most websites will reassure you it can take 4-6 weeks for them to respond to your query. And I do check the agents I’m sending to, and I’m not sending my novel of ritual Satanism to Christian publishing or anything. (I mean, I’m a procrastinator, but I have thought this through a little.)

The rejections have been really nice, which I consider a step up from some of the contest feedback I’ve received. (Once, a judge wrote down scripture notations about how my story would never, ever work, and marked 0′s wherever she could. Though technically my grammar was relatively sound, and I’d spelled my own name right. They give you 10 points off the bat for that sort of thing. But I got 0′s for things like “likeable hero”–with red-inked comments of “He’s the DEVIL!”, as if I’d forgotten who I’d made my main character. And the 2nd judge was all gushy about the same exact story–so that was really ironic. I guess they didn’t go to the same church.)

Still, it’s a REJECTION. I can’t really feel good about it.

To keep my sulking funk in perspective, my writer friends immediately stepped up and sent their favorite rejection stories. The best of the lot was the rejection that said, “I didn’t like your writing, and I shared it with everyone here, and nobody else liked it either.” Ouch. Okay, so I can’t complain.

Still I’m having school PE flashbacks where I’m being picked last for kickball, and some of the people being picked ahead of me are obvious (“Well, clearly, she’s going to go with the brilliant, literary historical writer who finalled in her last five contests…”) and some are not so obvious (“Oh, come on! My story is better than that! I didn’t have a single secret alien baby! What do you mean, secret alien babies are the new rage? Are you kidding?”)

Others call it a crapshoot. I’m not a fan of Vegas either, even if my current WIP is based in it. Okay, I have nothing against Vegas; I’m just not a gambler. Any time I’ve actually won a scratch off ticket, I usually remember the other 10 tickets I bought that did nothing–so this $2 win means I’m negative 8 dollars.

Now others will Pollyanna all over my sulk: “Hellion, at least you’re sending queries. That means you have a finished WIP, right?” Yes. “And you have a query.” Apparently not an interesting one. “And you’re submitting, so you’re trying.” This is like when the losing soccer team gets a trophy for showing up to the games. Yeah, that makes me feel better. No, wait, where’s my trophy? Do I have to make one out of paper-mache from my rejection letters? Hey, now there’s an idea of what I can do on my weekends between naps.

What’s your worst rejection letter? What’s your record number of queries sent in a single day? Any ideas what creative truths I can tell This Person the next time I’m asked what I did with my weekend? And for non-writers (i.e. non-gluttons for punishment), any horror flashbacks for being picked dead last? Anyone want to help me make my paper-mache Rejection Trophy?