I forced a bot...

...to read over two thousand rejection letters. Here’s what it came up with. 

 It is 3 A.M. The over-caffeinated writer stumbles to their writing machine. The writing machine is made of rough drafts, e-mail, cat photos, and tears. Sometimes the over-caffeinated writer is over-alcoholed. The writer deletes all the writing club advertisements, editing party invitations, and stares hard up at an e-mail from an editorial. The writer knows the e-mail is from an editorial because the preview begins "Dear Contributor." 

The writer--who is half a writer, half a submitter, and half a life--sees no words like "congratulations," "contract," or "Hugo" in the message preview. They feel The Void stirring in their heart area. They resist the urge to look at library- and writers’-desks-porn. They open the message, because Real Writers stack up reflections.

 The editorial’s bot has written: "Your story didn’t quite grip us in the gripping places, so we’re going to Hail Mary on it. We used to collapse quantum states for no sales, but now we suggest you prophesy yourself. In another timeline, this story’s prophecy will be fulfilled."

The writer spends the next two hours conducting reject-o-mancy with the entrails of the story's manuscript and chocolate wrappers. This is part of the reflection.

 "I see!" the writer says. They fire up their creation music and re-assemble the manuscript, adding parts from The Five Points, Joseph Campbell, Thou Shalts, and Facebook Likes.

 "Ha! They said it couldn't be done! But I'll show them. I'll show them all!"

 The manuscripts in the writer's trunk murmur, but are ignored or forgotten or unpublished.

 The writer--who is half-awake, half-zombie--presses the SEND button. "Live! Live!" they shout before passing out.