Monday, I mailed my latest science fiction short story to Asimov's magazine. Although it ranks as one of the shortest I've written, I think it's my best ever. I have little hope of acceptance and when I drop the package into the slot, I feel like Charlie Brown kicking a football held by Lucy. Circulation of pulp magazines has dropped drastically over the years. Asimov's is about 17,000 now, and I suspect that aspiring writers are the only subscribers. The competition is fierce. Most of the stories in the magazine are from well-known writers; only one or two each month come from wannabes like me. I can understand that, and I can understand that taking one of the workshops sponsored by the magazine would likely improve my chances of acceptance. It's harder to turn down someone you know. But that's not my game plan, or why I write.
I tell friends that my genre is rejected fiction.