Write about someone who is responding poorly to being rejected.
“Urgh,” I moan. I try to open my eyes but it feels like they are being held down by lead weights. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert. All I can taste is vomit.
I try to open my eyes again but they protest against the bright morning light streaming through the window. What happened last night?
My eye lids flicker, to allow a little light to penetrate the darkness, while I try to piece together my memories of the night before.
The rejection letter.
My eyes snap open and I groan again. I drag my heavy head from the table top with care to prevent any further pain searing my already throbbing temples. I have no idea how long I slept in that position. My neck is aching so I squeeze it within my palm to try to ease the stiff muscles.
My lap top is open in front of me but the screen is dark. An empty bottle of tequila sits next to it alongside an empty shot glass. I groan again. My aching head and roiling stomach only confirms that I drank the whole thing.
The damned letter that led to my need to drown my sorrows in alcohol sits next to my lap top. It looks like it has been screwed up then flattened out again. The creases are still plain to see on the headed paper from my “last chance” publisher.
My stomach roils in protest when I attempt to stand so I decide to stay still for a little longer.
Why can’t I find a single publisher for my book? I have invested so much in those pages: my blood, my sweat, my tears. Hell, I’ve hardly seen my friends for the last six months while I dedicated my time to writing the first draft, editing it, and then editing it again.
My beta reader said it was great, and my mum can’t be wrong.
I drop my head back down on the table, howling in despair. As I do, I knock the lap top and it flickers to life.
To avoid lifting my head I slide my cheek along the table top and take the weight upon my chin. There is an unread email in my inbox. With a sense of foreboding I open the email. It is from the publisher.
As the publisher’s reply infiltrates my addled brain, I almost die from embarrassment. My dreams of becoming a published writer slowly wither to nothing as I re-read my drunken ramblings.
Losing the will to remain upright, I let myself slip from the chair and meet the floor with a resounding thud.
