Sometimes you send out a story to publishers and basically say WTF.
You’re proud of the story but you wrote it for yourself. You belatedly consider the audience (oh that’s right I’m meant to write for a market) and after consideration, you admit it’s bristly. It will disturb people.
You don’t hope for much but you think it deserves a chance. Why inflict your pessimism on the creation? Let the runt pack light and do some limited travel. Let the little tacker see some of the world before returning to the only one who loves it.
Then the plucky go-getter rocks up to Crack the Spine Literary Magazine and fights his way into edition #154. He’s waiting there at the end of the book, just to make sure you finish your literary fix by staring into your lap and mumbling, ‘Oh f**k’.