The more I think about it, in my writing life I feel a bit like the manager of an ophanage. Under my care I have a house full of stories that I’d really like to find a good home for. Some of them I’m sure are really lovely, and deserve to be placed somewhere special. Some of them have their flaws, but I still love them and I really want to find them somewhere to go to. So every few weeks I send them out into the world, to see if some kind family will take them in. And sometimes, the family writes back to me to say that, whilst they are probably very nice, they don’t feel that they can see a future for them together. So I scold them and see if there is some way that I can somehow improve them so that they make a better impression next time. And then sometimes I get a lovely letter back saying that they would really like to take them in and look after them.
This rather tortuous analogy is just to say that on Saturday night, I had a rejection for one of my favourite pieces, followed up on Sunday morning by an acceptance for a piece that I’ve always had slightly mixed feelings about. So, I hear you say, if you had mixed feelings about it, why did you send it out? Simple. I had a responsibility for it. I needed to find it a home. And I still have a happy glow because of that.