Okay, so here's the thing about writers. Nobody makes us write. Nobody puts a pistol to our head and says, "Your words or your life." We might write for money but still when we write, we put something of ourselves into the result.
I send work out into the world regularly. I iron its spotted handkerchief, tie its little pack with the best knot in my repertoire and polish its stick. I don't have stupid expectations, I fully expect it to come back - but even so, when it does I HURT.
All of which is a long way of saying that my two-part jigsaw serial has just returned home rather less jaunty than when it set out.
I know it's not a bad story. I know it's simply that it wasn't quite right for the editor I sent it to. C'est la vie. Tomorrow I'll look through it, make it a nice new packed lunch and send it somewhere else.
But right now I feel like drowning my sorrows.