Rejection means rewrites. Rewrites mean reworking. Dismantling. Reconstruction. Confusion. Despair. A day lost hiding under my pillow, in my room, questioning my existence, wishing I were Faulkner or Hemingway or Parker or Salinger, someone who wrote important crap and stayed drunk the entire time to make it even more meaningful.
I've been told that the story takes too long to get started. I constructed it with the framework of Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" as underlayment. Familiar with it? It's a slow, romantic, heartbreaking build until the ultimate climax two-thirds of the way through the piece, at 6:08 or so in the 9:03 version. I'm going to stand by that slow build. The payoff is too rich to make it happen any sooner.
But alas, rewrites will continue. Never say die.
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