My story was not accepted by the editor, which makes sense because it wasn’t very good.

My story was not accepted by the editor, which makes sense because it wasn’t very good. It was well written. Had a message. Said something. But see, I keep writing the same story and expecting something important to happen. 

It never does. The editor is always unsatisfied and I’m always bruised by their indifference because the story they’re rejecting is mine. I keep writing my story, and it keeps not changing anything. 

I thought if I wrote it down, if I got it all in one place and showed someone. If they then told me it was good. That I was okay after all. I would feel, I dunno, better? Justified? Legible–that’s closer. 

I wanted people to read my story–to see me and understand. For them to then tell me that it–I–am good. Talented? Special? Understandable? Understandable. That they see me, really, and they get it. They see me and they think it’s good. 

Someone once told me that the reason we write is to prove we exist. Corny, maybe, but it’s true. It’s about our intentions though, right? I can prove I exist without trying again and again to make myself understood. 

The best writing is hardly ever read. I really believe that. The stuff we put out into the world runs through the filter of what we believe is good. About ourselves. About what we create. Even if it’s very subtle, almost unnoticeable, it is changed. Trying to make ourselves likable and understood makes for bad writing. Proving to ourselves we exist though–that’s important writing.

Like I said, my story was well written. Beautifully written, actually. It just doesn’t change anything. 

And I’d really like to change something.