Rejection was a door

Shruti Pant

Last Sunday, I sent a story I had written to nepalnamcha.com for potential publication. It was a work of fiction that dwelled on war, the consequences of war, the tenderness of loss, and the complexity of human emotion.

I sent my story to nepalnamcha.com, explaining what it was briefly, with little to no expectation of it being published. Yet the very next day, the editor Ashok Silwal replied, asking for my contact and specifically praising my writing. Upon reading that, I was flattered indeed.

Writing has carved such sentiments in my life over the years, and knowing someone had both read and acknowledged my work meant a lot.

However, as to how I had initially assumed, my story wasn’t accepted to be published. You see, the piece depicts a fictional war between Nepal and India, born solely out of my own sense of patriotism.

But the Internet is a dangerous place.

It can distort information beyond my comprehension. He emphasized the risks so imposed by my story if misinterpreted and taken out of context. My story may have reached the reader’s heart, yet it may also have wandered into places I didn’t intend it to.

I was bound to be torn apart. The spark of hope had been extinguished. Yet strangely, his words lingered with me, and I found myself feeling more inspired than disheartened. He didn’t merely say “no”, he spoke about writing itself, how it colors life. His passion ignited something within me at that moment that made me want to indulge in nothing but writing. It doesn’t have to be pursued as a career or a means of survival; it can be a simple hobby, yet it is so vast and beautiful.

The plethora of raw, unfiltered thoughts of a breathing soul, composed within words.

Some days, I wonder about computers and AI that can write stories. Nonetheless, neither has stood where I’ve stood. They can assemble words, sure, but they cannot breathe the way I do, cannot feel the way I do, and cannot express the way I do. I believe no elegant word can carry the weight of genuine experience.

One authentic moment can be heavier than a thousand ornate phrases.

If my story were to be published in the eyes of the media today, it would be published, yes, but that would be all. But that dismissal felt like my first step onto the uneven stairs of media.

Writing feels instinctive to me. Perhaps in every version of myself, I see a pen gripped in my hand, and for that lone reason, I choose to cherish it, to let my pen bleed ink, and to write, write and write away.

…
(नमस्कार ! नेपालनाम्चा तपाईंको मिडिया साथी हो । र, nepalnamcha@gmail.com मा परिचय, फोटोसहित मनका अनेक कुरा, सबै कुरा पठाउनुहोला ।)