Gemotions

The rejection letter, crisp and impersonal, lay on Elara's kitchen table. A single, thin ray of sunlight pierced the blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She poured herself a cup of chamomile tea, its warmth spreading through her hands. The words on the page stung, but she didn’t crumble. She’d spent years on this novel; months revising after the first draft. She took a slow sip, letting the bitterness of the tea linger on her tongue. It was a good exercise in endurance.

She rose, stretching her arms above her head, feeling the satisfying crackle in her spine. The manuscript would go out again. Perhaps with a few more changes. She picked up the phone, her fingers finding the number of a writer's group she belonged to. They could offer perspective, or simply, a sympathetic ear. Elara knew that the next step was writing the next letter.