They fall, and falling they’re given wings.
I fall a lot. When I try to catch a toy, I sometimes stretch and fall off the couch. If I look out the window, I sometimes fall off the arm of the chair and get squooshed against the wall.
When I run, I sometimes slide and fall over when I hit the dresser or cabinets. Falling is not a problem for me. That being said, I am never given wings.
Mom doesn’t fall on the floor, like I do, but when her work comes back rejected, it’s like a fall for her. Most of the time, Mom LOVES the mailman, but when he brings rejection letters, she says, “This mail is stupid.” and “Why does the mailman hate me?” and “You can’t balance like that for very long. Don’t you know that by now?”
Clearly, no wings for her either.
Mom’s stories and poems do get wings when they fall. They suddenly get busted out of the computer and Mom reads them and changes them around and reads them and makes them shorter and reads them and makes them longer and reads them and makes them better. After a few days (or weeks) of that, those stories and poems go flying back to the mailbox to new publishers. Wings!