You know that look.

It’s the look that people make when you say you want to be an author. They think you’re not looking, but just like your writing skills, they have underestimated your attention.

You have to admit, the look isn’t unreasonable. However brimming the Barnes and Nobles is with new novels, it’s hard not to think of the thousands of manuscripts the editors tossed into the recycling.

And you know the odds. Out of the 15 thousand pieces that an agent receives in a year, only 15 will be published. But the odds aren’t as simple as 1 to 1000. 900 or so will be tossed out immediately for having little to no actual artistry in them. But how do you even know that you are in that 10%?

Even Teen Ink is bombarded with 150,000 submissions each year, and they can publish very little of it. That wonderful sentimental piece that you spent hours polishing like a piece of Spanish silver can wilt in comparison to something else. Your will never be the best at writing. But someone has to be.

You know that you aren’t the first person to get that look. Geezerly old men in their bathrobes scoff at your dreams of publication, because they too were turned away once, just like you. They were dreamers and artists and hopeful young-things, but years of rejection soured them, and they exist only to prod at the aspirations of the next generations.

There is probably even some fact you can think of to shrug off the look that is settling into your skin. “Harry Potter was rejected by 12 publishers,” you pipe up, or “Louisa May Alcott was told to stick to teaching.” But that would only make you look even more desperate, and besides, you are no J.K. Rowling, and your ramshackle writing is not Little Women.

When you think about rejection, you get scared even to try. You don’t want to hear the thud of your manuscript in the trash bin, or the click of a reckless delete. You don’t want to find an apology in your email, or wait for months for a “yes” that would never come. Why try anyway? It is not worth the effort, and it’s not worth the tears.

Honestly, you might as well give yourself the look. “You can’t even get published in a magazine of teenagers,” you think, and you hear the quiet “squish” of your dreams being squashed. They are still giving you the look. You give them an eyebrow. Because somewhere inside you know you won’t stop trying.