That evening, during our “Highlight/Lowlight” conversation over dinner, I told my kids, “My lowlight was a letter I got today. It told me someone else won a writing contest that I really wanted to win.”

Jane looked at me with sad eyes and said, “I still wuv you, Mama.”

Jack said, “If I had a contest, you would win. I’d make sure of it!” Then he used his Super Magic Powers to change the results of the writing contest and declared me the winner.

Even if I never, ever win a writing award, I am one lucky woman.

I didn’t. The agency’s website says they’ll call or email within two weeks. Yesterday marked two weeks.

When I sent the query, I wrote on the top of my printed copy, “Emailed August 19.” Last night, under that, I wrote, “September 3, no response. Rejection assumed.”

Then I cried. And cried. And cried.

I don’t think my tears were about this agent, really. They were about the whole process, the constant risking of my heart’s desire with total strangers, the hoping and then having my hopes dashed, over and over.

When I started down this path, I knew that I would encounter rejection. I knew I would probably encounter a lot of it. But I didn’t understand what that meant, how much it would hurt, how it would make me wonder if my beautiful novel was really garbage and I’m just too blind or stupid to see it. I’d read angry writers’ rants about the publishing business, about agents, about the opacity and irrationality of the publication process, and I promised myself I would never be like that.

And I won’t. Not publicly. But last night, in the privacy of my own kitchen, with my husband as my only audience, I completely lost it. Every thing those writers I swore I’d never be like have said—I said it, too. I feel it, even now, and it feels true.

I will continue to be upbeat on this blog, to try to learn from my mistakes, to persevere in the face of rejection, but today I wanted to let all of you who are experiencing rejection right now; who feel the pain of it; who cry at the unfairness of it; who read blogs and articles that blithely assure you, “There’s always a market for awesome!” or “Good writing will out!,” and think bitter thoughts about how those bloggers are delusional or lying—I want you to know you’re not alone.

Rejection hurts. Repeated rejection hurts more. But hang in there with me, okay? We’ll persevere. We’ll fight bitterness and envy and despair. We’ll try to believe that good writing will out. And we’ll act like we believe it even when we don’t.

And eventually we’ll find the audience who loves our writing—starting with, please God, Agent #11.

Right?