I don’t know the right people. You have to know someone on the inside.
Editors and publishers have no taste (to any editors and publishers reading this, yourself excluded, naturally).
I secretly fear success and subconsciously sabotage myself
I just haven’t yet written the story that will open the floodgates of my success.
There’s a conspiracy against me. I suspect it somehow involves Amy, that bitchy waitress I worked with one summer during college. I don’t know why she had it in for me, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she organized a movement just to mess with my head.
Let’s be honest. I can be a bit lazy sometimes.
Someone, somewhere has cursed me. Perhaps Amy has a Voodoo doll.
Everyone gets a lot of rejections, and I really shouldn’t start complaining until I’ve gotten at least 100 more.
I waste too much time puttering around the Internet.
My writing is so smart that it goes over most people’s heads.
My writing is not actually as smart as I think it is.
I’m not British. For some reason, part of me has always thought my life might be better if I were British.
Becoming a pastry chef is my true calling.
Chuck Norris has threatened to kick the ass of anyone who publishes my work. I’m not sure why. I’ve never done anything to him.
All of my e-mail submissions are being intercepted by gremlins that add the words snickerdoodle, parsimonious, and blubber to every third sentence of my stories.
Everyone hates a vegetarian.
I’ve neever ben grate at prooffreadding my own work.
My shameless flouting of superstitions has caught up with me. After all, I have been known to walk under ladders, step on cracks, open umbrellas indoors, and fraternize with black cats. Heck, I got married on the thirteenth floor of a hotel.
I have a problem with follow-through. I start a lot of things and don’t…