Sometimes a thing can seem like bad news, but it actually turns out to be good news. When I'm feeling bitter, I might say that we use that sentiment to console ourselves when faced with our own relentless mundanity, (I'm a blast at parties,) but that's just my own negative bullshit. The truth is, good news likes a masquerade ball as much as 90s teen fiction does and it dresses up all the time. Good news has an extensive tickle trunk.
Good news masquerading as bad has looked
It starts early.
If you're familiar with the way I operate the rejection count, you would know that this is the part where I would usually copy the rejection letter into the body of a post word-for-word (minus the editor's name because no bad feelings, editors work hard and are both underappreciated and underpaid.) But I can't do that this time, because this first rejection of the year is a special kind of rejection: the no-contact rejection.
[WRITING REJECTION 1/100] *nam
2017 ended just in time for me to start writing the proper year on my rent cheques. I rang in the new year in Toronto with friends, strangers, and party favors; cautiously optimistic, recklessly inebriated. We exchanged jokes, stories, and a socially appropriate* amount of reflection about the past year. * almost 2017 was a lot of things, but mostly it was long. When it slipped quietly into 2018, the countdown caught me off guard, and I thought, "Welp. That was that," as I