Because it is bitter...

And this morning comes another rejection – from Writers House.

I didn't actually expect them to pick it up since their guidelines are very explicit: they don't handle horror. And in marketing category terms, my little novel is horror – though, of course, it is so brilliant that it transcends its marketing category. Heh heh heh.

This is why it took me so long to write a novel. Even though I knew that Writers House was a long shot, and even though I suspect now that it is Ralph Vicinanza himself who is reading my novel – Lucius sez he was back from vacation on the 12th, and Eben Weiss's job is obviously to run interference – I still feel the rejection right in my solar plexus, an adrenalinized numbness that runs into my shoulders and down my arms. My hands are shaking. My skin is so thin, my little red engorged heart pounds and pounds.