Ten years ago I signed up for online dating. Ten years ago, I was fresh into my 30s and, after the trials of my twenties, I was ready to find someone to share my life with. Someone to complete me and all that nonsense. I wasn’t looking for anything specific, mind you, my goal was simple: someone who loved and hated all the same things that I did and wanted to hang out, make out, and not freak out. What I got was nothing like I expected.

I was a hopeless romantic in denial for years. I wanted to be cynical and hard. I wanted to survive the shit that life threw at me with grit and determination. I built an ice wall of hope, brick by icy brick, surrounding the forest of fear and anxiety I had planted around my heart when I was younger. I was proud of my icy wall of hope. I expected it to melt until the fear was flooded and the anxiety drowned.

The first guy was nice, awkward but nice, the second was interesting, the third was bizarre, the fourth was nice again…and round the carrousel went. It took me a while to realize that they weren’t dates, they were more like tryouts. Then came the ambiguity and worry. A third date was a big deal. Did that mean you were dating? Suddenly you’re in the unknown. My wall of hope was being chipped away until all that was left was more fear and more anxiety. Suddenly I was the one tending to their insecurities, helping them get off the ground after a multitude of life crises. They were all the same—each one “didn’t like labeling themselves” which was just a bullshit way of not committing. I fell for it all, hook, line, and sinker.

Until I didn’t. Until I caught on to their bullshit and rebuilt my defenses. I realized that if the guy was worth it there wouldn’t be any uncertainty. I realized I was better than any of the unlabeled “relationships” I found myself in.

The big moment: crying to my Mom after breaking up with the last one, wondering why I was never enough for him; wondering what I was doing wrong. The epiphany came after that conversation: maybe they weren’t enough for me.

I needed to go through that to discover I was already enough. And to be blunt: fuck them.

I bring this up now, because, a decade later, I’m at the precipice of another big moment. I wrote a book. Who knows if it is a good book, but I like it. I’m attempting to publish it traditionally, a task, that in my early twenties, terrified me beyond words. To be rejected on something that I poured my heart and soul into is a daunting prospect. I’ve built my wall of hope around my manuscript this time and I’ve sent endless requests and queries into the void of literary agents. Now comes the waiting, the uncertainty, then suddenly—an email!  First rejection, second rejection, third rejection…

When I worked in retail and we were required to push credit cards on unsuspecting customers, we coached our team that you have to get at least 99 NOs before you found the YES. I’m employing the same principle here. (Thank you, retail) I sent out over 50 queries and have received eight rejections.

Without my dating epiphany or the determination of the retail industry, I would be unable to persevere. I wouldn’t have the determination to collect my rejections, like postcards, and pin them on the refrigerator.

I often think of the me from ten, twenty years ago. The me who was so afraid of being thought a fool, or being snubbed and tossed away that it hindered my ability to grow for so long.  Of course, she’s still lurking inside me somewhere, and sometimes she gets out, but she isn’t who I am anymore.

So send your rejections, all you literary masters.

I bought a scrapbook and a lot of stickers. Gimme something to work with.