I'm debating the end of this chapter. I got a little too excited about dropping steampunk hints, and might have put them in too soon. Or perhaps not; I'll see what I do with it. Needless to say, things are going to get interesting.
Now, onto a less positive topic: rejection!
Now that this is resolved I figure I can say it on here: I got a request for a manuscript about a month or so ago. And not just from anybody, from JABberwocky agency (Brandon's agency). Needless to say, I edited that bad boy and shipped it off. I took care to not get too excited about it, because rejection happens all the time.
Well, my prophecy was correct. I got a rejection letter today from JABberwocky. Damn.
I'm not too upset about the whole thing, mostly because I anticipated it. But it is hard to distance oneself from things such as this, especially when it is a culmination of a life's dream (and a potential career). Deep down, I do feel a bit sad that it didn't work out. Who wouldn't want to have an agent or and editor want your work? It's certainly something worth working towards.
This is only the...sixth rejection for Paradise Seekers thus far? I send out a good dozen and most haven't returned yet. I'm considering sending it to a few more places, once life slows down. I'll also send WGMD and Steelgods out once they are finished as well.
It is just unfortunate. One always thinks they'll get lucky the first time, not have to slog through fileboxes of rejection letters before finally breaking through. That just isn't the case.
At any rate, I am moving onward to bigger and better things. Like finishing Might of the Steelgods.
Which, by the way, I wrote THIS in today!
“What happened?” I pressed. “How did you take it [the Graffiti] from me?”
Roc shook his head. “You saw it twice, and you still don’t get it? Here’s a life tip: don’t try your hand at being a magician, or illusionist. You are terrible.”
“Spare me!” I groaned. “What did you do?”
“Think about it.”
I did. “You finished the abstract,” I concluded. “And that made it yours.”
“Exactly.” Roc wiggled a Tipped finger at me. I shook my head.
“But when I was trained, my instructor finished abstracts,” I remembered April drawing a tongue onto my smiling face many nights previous, “and they weren’t stolen.”
“And there’s the trick,” Roc smiled. “You can only steal someone’s Graffiti if you really want to. No slight desires, no half-assing it. You want to need it, more than anything. Then, when you finish it, it becomes yours.”
I was still confused. “But how did you ‘need’ my fire abstract? I can understand last night, but right now? It offered nothing for you.”
Roc rose his hands into the air. “Bluffer, you seem to forget. I’m a Gambler. I live my entire life based around theft, trickery, conniving schemes, and generally being a terrible person. Stealing is just something I do. I want everything. If I see something that I don’t have, or even that I do have, I need it. Thus, stealing your silly abstract means very little to me. I take it as easily as I draw breath.”
He pushed a finger to my forehead. I was grateful it was not a Tipped one. “You, on the other hand, are a sheltered little twit. You couldn’t steal something if it was practically handed to you. Since you aren’t nearly as morally ravaged as I am, you’ll probably never be able to steal an abstract in your life.”