I have a little bottle where I store beads for each of the rejections I’ve received from agents. I started my multifarious collection after sending out the first batch of queries for my current novel. Then people started asking me if I was okay.

A subjective term, but yes, I’m okay. I promise.

I know that my novel will get out there, one way or another, so I have an optimistic outlook on the work of launching it. And I know that I am not my novel. While it is a part of me, a rejection letter for my work is not a rejection of me as a human. (I may have to remind myself of this some days, but at my core I know it’s true.)

To be clear, yes, I will be sad if no one offers me a contract or even asks for additional pages. But it won’t be the end of my world. And it won’t be the end for my book. It’s only part of the process, and I’m prepared to keep moving forward either way. (See? Don’t I sound healthy?)

This all reminds me a little bit of the other phase I’m currently shuffling through in my life. Both of my children recently moved out (within five days of each other), and then my husband went back to work and I was left alone in the house we bought when we were building our family. This means I’m now surrounded by a lot of empty spaces (or I will be, once I get a chance to clean and organize whatever remains). People call it an empty nest. But it’s so depressing when you put it that way, isn’t it?

I once had a mourning dove nest on the ledge of my bedroom window, and we watched the babies every day as they grew, until they eventually flew away. That mama mourning dove was seen shortly thereafter, wandering aimlessly in the middle of the street like she didn’t know what to do with herself now that her babies were gone. I’ve teased my children that I would be like that bird someday, wandering around the cul-de-sac in my bathrobe with no direction and no purpose. Because, what, I’m nothing without them, right?

But that’s not actually how I see it. I am watching from here as my children soar into their new and exciting lives. And I will always be here to support them, but I could not be happier that they are capable of leaving me here to resume the life that was simmering just below the surface while they were my top priority.

Bottom line? Whether they live with me or not, I am still a mother. And whether my book is picked up or not, I am still a writer.

As my manuscript makes its way out into the cruel world, I will be here to support it. I will be excited for its successes and saddened by its losses. And I will continue in my writing life as my book continues in its publishing phase. Because the portion of my life that I gave to writing my novel, while important, did not leave an empty space in my mind when it was over. Finishing it is not the end of anything, especially my identity. If anything, it has made space for me to start something new.

I do value the empathy and support I am getting from everyone who knows me. But I am the one who has to choose how to view my life – creative and otherwise – as it is now.

They say, empty nesters. I say, frequent flyers. (It helps to have a pilot in the family for this to work.)

They say, retired. I say, independent. (I have often been accused of being antisocial, so this works well for me.)

They say, rejection. I say, Oh well, I’ll just try something else.

And that’s how you survive. That’s how you flourish when everything is new again. That’s why I really am okay.

**Note: I do appreciate how gracious agents are when they send out those “rejection letters.” They are most often encouraging, which softens the blow and helps on those days when I have to make an extra effort not to take it personally. For that, dear agents, I thank you.