Swift work

It wasn't quite by return of post, but my rejection was shamefacedly lying on the doormat when I got home today. The tell-tale plumpness of the envelope belied the contents even before I turned it over to see my own handwriting, so the rejection itself (a bog-standard compliment slip tucked cosily inside my spurned chapters) wasn't too hurtful. I was expecting to feel at least slightly crushed, but I have done no wailing whatsoever and my teeth remain ungnashed.
This was not the only agent in the world. Everyone gets rejections at some point. A 'no' doesn't necessarily mean the writing is bad. I have been thinking this week - yes, despite appearances, I do think occasionally - and I have realised that even if every agent and publisher in the cosmos were to tell me that they will never, ever allow another word of mine to enter the public domain, I would still carry on writing. Perhaps this is one of those situations where the journey is more important than the destination.
Here endeth the sermon.
(In case you're wondering, the rejection was disappointingly free of rubber-stamped messages.)