To Submit or Not To Submit...

...that is truly the question.

I have been told that an aspiring author will have to accept many, many rejections before they are published. Hundreds of rejections. I'm not looking to have a book published (yet), but I am considering submitting one of my short stories that I wrote for a class last semester to a literary journal on campus.

The only thing is that I'm pretty sure they won't take a fantasy story. They'll accept my submission, but I really doubt I'll be chosen. I'm not saying that to be pessimistic, I'm saying it because the last issue of the journal I saw had essays and a cryptical short story in it, one of those ones that sounds like it was written by Ernest Hemingway or something. While I have nothing against Hemingway (except that I've been scarred by having to read "Old Man and the Sea"), I'm not particularly fond of his stuff.

So since it's a literary journal, I doubt mine will be chosen... but I feel like this is a low-key way to start learning about rejection. (This sounds so depressing!) It's due by April 9, though and I still have a ton of homework and exams to do in the next two weeks. Maybe I'll have my husband look over the short story instead of my prologue, though, and try hard to make the submission....

Prologue Chunk

At long last! Here's a couple of paragraphs from the prologue of my novel.

Please remember that everything here is original work. I did not plagiarize anything and this work is not to be plagiarized either. Constructive criticism is encouraged and almost begged for. This is not a final draft.

*****

                The light that came through the small hole in the wooden door of his cell was cold and grey and unwelcoming. The smell of mold was overpowering, yet almost familiar to him; the feel of the moss that grew between the cracks in the stone floor was almost comforting to his feet. His shoulders ached from the weight of his body, and the shackles that held his arms up over his head had made his arms numb. The trickle of wetness on his back was uncomfortable, but he was powerless to move. They had sapped the last of his strength when they had tied him up and lashed him. Ten strokes with the whip, and they had left him there for an indeterminable amount of time. They might have taken him down shortly after the beating except he had killed one of their leaders, and so he was left to stare at nothing in the dim light from the torches outside the cell, wondering where his father was and how his fellow men were doing… wondering if they would be able to find him… He had been locked down in the dungeon for quite some time, and only recently had developed a desire to punish him- they probably didn’t realize he was the one who had killed their leader. He had no idea how long he’d been there; all he knew was that he was underground somewhere, away from the cycles of day and night and time.

                The heavy wooden door of his cell shuddered and was shoved open. He heard the voices of his captors, their heavy accent and harsh language as they spoke to one another. In they came, two men just a few inches over five feet with tanned, leathery skin from working in the fields and stubborn faces. They stopped once they were through the door, and stood facing each other, clearly arguing with each other and occasionally stabbing a finger in his direction without looking at him. He didn’t feel like caring; his entire body ached with the strain of standing with his arms pulled above his head for hours, and he could feel exhaustion taking over. He stared blankly at in front of him, trying to ignore everything.

                There were faint voices, barely discernible, and the two men by the door looked through to the long stone hallway of the dungeon. One said something, and stepped out into the hall. What truly caught his attention was the thump of the man falling to the ground. The second man called something, and stepped out as well. He looked over and saw an arrow thump into the second man, who dropped to the floor as well, a curdling wail emitting from his throat. The new voices became louder, and he realized they were familiar. He pulled against the chains, making them clank, using the last of his strength to struggle for a good few minutes, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs and his arms. More yells came, the guttural yells from his captors mingled with the voices he was beginning to recognize. There were a few long moments of obvious battle-metal against metal, yells and cries- and then someone came through the door again. He stood very still, his heart sinking as the newcomer stood and raised his spiked club, white teeth flashing against his tanned hide, a terrible smile that preceded a killing…

                And then the man was on his face, and another man was standing behind him, bloody sword in hand.