Probably there is some writer out there who has no doubts about their ability to write great novels, stories, poetry, and any other form. They always know that the rejection is just the agent or editor not understanding the brilliance of the piece. Maybe they never get rejected.

I am not that writer.

I’ve published only a handful of poems because each rejection makes me doubt myself.

Who am I to write poetry? I’m autistic, I don’t internally visualize things so my descriptions are off, my meter is either forced or erratic.

Who am I to write novels? I don’t want to tell the right stories. I don’t want to just write about moderately inconvenienced little white boys discovering they’re actually rich and the most important person in the whole world. I want to tell the stories I see around me–of loss, of heartache, of triumphs that only two people in the world care about, of being a victim who got rescued rather than saving themself. As a couple of agents have said after reading one of my books: “Who would even read this? It’s too painful for kids to read, and adults don’t want to read about kids.” (Lots of silence and/or form letters from others.)

But my beta readers, who have no reason to like me much less lie to me, tell me it’s amazing. Is my imagination poor, or is publishing rigged to exalt the quotidian?

Despite these rejections, I’ve kept writing. Right now, I’m working on my fifth novel, with none published.

I don’t think it’s masochism. I write because there are stories I want to tell. There are stories I want people to read. I want people to yearn and ache and love the way I do for the characters in my books.

I know my writing is strange. I also know it’s clear–I have too many years as a line editor to doubt that. So where is the audience whose heart beats like mine does?

When I figure that out, I’ll know a better answer for why I keep writing than “because I can’t stop”.