For the past 5 years I have been writing these posts on my “writing anniversary” of March 1st. Everybody runs them in December or January, so I liked being different. However, all of my tracking software tracks these things by calendar year, and it’s a bit of a pain teasing everything out, so I’m giving in.

It helps that this has been far and away my most successful year, even with only counting 10 months.

This year:

Stories Written: 5
Number of [Submission-Ready] Words: 14,000
Number of Story Submissions: 104
Number of Rejections: 94
Number of Acceptances: 8
Postage Costs: $3.85
Revenue: $578*

*$3 not actually paid yet

Total:

Stories Written: 31
Number of [Submission-Ready] Words: 118,600
Number of Story Submissions: 372
Number of Rejections: 354
Number of Acceptances: 12
Postage Costs: $124.68
Revenue: $850.70

Oh my goodness, where to even begin.

I thought I had finally cracked 100 rejections in a year, and I certainly will in a full 12 months, but only technically 94 since March. However, twice as many acceptances this year as I’ve had all time, and correspondingly twice as much money this year as I’ve had all time. (Side note, 4 of those acceptances will be published in 2015).

But the numbers don’t tell the full story.

I’ve had stories translated into Galician and Polish. I attended my first con and did my first reading. I had a story performed as a play, and a story hung in an art gallery. I had a story selected for a Year’s Best anthology (still squeeing).

It’s been quite a year.

On a smaller note, a few things that felt pretty good as well: I sold a second story to a single publisher for the first time (whoops, haven’t even announced that one yet, as it just happened on the 31st – watch this space!), I sold a very long story for a big chunk o’ change, and I also sold the trifecta of horror, fantasy, and science fiction this year. All of these things feel so good because they’re just excellent validation. Each one helps to combat my imposter syndrome in some small way. When my brain says, “You can only write short,” or “you can only write SF,” or “nobody thinks that’s funny”, or “when this publisher comes to their senses and realizes you are a worthless puddle of goo, you will never sell another story to them,” I can point to that and say, “Nuh uh, brain! Nuh uh! Lookit that right there! I’m not a worthless puddle of goo! I am a puddle of goo that is WORTH something!”

I am a puddle of goo that is worth something.

Carving that on my tombstone.

And then literally turning into a worthless puddle of goo.