Rejection Dejection
A writing teacher I had a few years ago said something to our group that seemed significant. I listened hard.
After all, she was a published poet in many magazines, had published fiction and essays in other, even more famous magazines, had edited two specialty magazines for years, and had also done commentary for National Public Radio. Why shouldn’t I learn something from her? She was smart, talented, and she knew the business.
She said, “The longer a magazine holds your work, the better your chances are that they are interested. It means you’ve made the cut. You’ve made two cuts. This is a GOOD thing. I know many people who have insisted that they got their rejections from The New Yorker within a week. Some have maintained the rejection came before they got home from the post office.”
I began to feel that a day without rejection was a good day. I could entertain myself with the possibility that perhaps right this minute, someone in an office somewhere was saying, “YES! This one…by, what’s her name Lucey? Is that her first name or her last name? Doesn’t matter. Just send her a fat check and tell her we love her work. We’ll print it in six months.”
But then I noticed two, rather important things.
1. When I reviewed my submission list I noticed that, among the occasional acceptances, there were some magazines who had never, ever, not ever responded to my submission in any way. Of course I sent them a SASE. Perhaps they steamed off the stamps and stuck them on a letter to another author, and sent them the big fat check I’d been hoping for.
2. Around this time of year I seem to have a week or two of constant rejection. Boom, boom, boom. The mail box brims with “Uh, uh,” and “No Way.” I picture that editors and publishers everywhere are now firming up their plans for time shares or heading off to Nantucket. As they leave, they turn to some flunky and say, “Oh, you there. Clear up my desk for my, will you? The form letters are in the bottom drawer. Just put the letter in the SASE of anything you find. In fact, there’s a box full over in the corner I never got to. I’m outta here. Tah!”
Writers are a peculiar lot. We work at it, even though no one hired us. No one asked us to cobble together a proposal. No one begged us to put something down on paper. Maybe your aunt has said, “I’m telling you. You are too funny. You ought to write that down and sell it. I bet you could get that published.” Perhaps a friend of yours has said, “I swear, your life is like a soap opera. You should write a novel.”
In fact, maybe your boss, trying to get rid of you for a few hours or worse, has said, “Yeah, well, write up your ideas, and maybe I’ll give it a look sometime.”
You read a book or a short story or an article and you say, “Humph. Why did that get published? I could have written something better. This guy couldn’t find his butt with both hands. I could. I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.” And you start to write.
You sign up for a workshop. The people are nice. They tell you lines that they liked and wait for you to compliment them. You write a few stories, a few poems, a few articles. And then you read how Stephen King quit his teaching job as soon as he sold two stories. Someone is going to want to pay for your gems, you think. After all, you got a letter to the editor published in the newspaper once or twice. It’s time to get serious.
You buy lots of books on writing and marketing. You buy envelopes and stamps. You try to fluff up your writing credits the way a balding man spreads three hairs across his crown. You spell check. You show your work to someone who loves you. That person says, “Very nice, dear. Very nice.”
You are ready to send out your work. What you don’t know yet is that probably it will be months before you get a response. And that response will be a form letter. It will say your work “does not suit our needs at this time.” It might be addressed to Writer or Occupant. It won’t mention the story or article by name. It won’t have any human handwriting on it.
You will feel as though you have been dissed by a computer. Or you will worry that a jealous assistant editor has not shown your work to “the right people” because she’s pushing her own work. Dang, that assistant editor. That little sneak. After a few years (yes, years) when you realize the magazines you’ve heard of only want to hear from you during subscription renewal time, you will set your sites lower.
What to do? Give up? Not if you believe in your work, you don’t. Think of all the talented people out there in all forms of entertainment that we don’t know by name. You aren’t doing this because you want to write a best seller and go on talk shows and make a million dollar movie deal. (Well, of course you do, but try not to let that make you bitter) You are writing because you are waiting for something. You just don’t know that what you are waiting for is the GOOD rejection.
Is there any such thing, or is that just another version of someone breaking up with you, but saying they still want to be friends?
Yes. There is such a thing as a Good Rejection. A good rejection is when a human being says something nice about your work…when they send you the form letter. They will hand write this part. Or they say they would like to see more of your work. After all, the last thing they want to encourage is submissions from a writer who is hopeless.
If you work hard and are lucky, you will get an acceptance much sooner than I have indicated is usual. Then you will be pleased, especially when you can think, “Hey, was that Lucey Lady wrong.” If you work hard and are lucky, you will get a good rejection. Which is encouraging. I’ve gotten three pieces published after editors suggested that the first piece wasn’t for them, but did I have something else?
What you don’t want is THE REALLY BAD REJECTION. Sometimes this happens too. An editor, for reasons known only to his own bad self….indigestion? domestic dilemma? about to get canned due to a hostile takeover? decides to take it out on you. Writers collect good and bad rejections.
How will you know if you’ve not just been turned down, but turned inside out and bounced on the sidewalk? The following might be samples of just how tough some folks can be to a perfectly nice person they’ve never met:
1. Your workshop leader was too kind…way too kind.
2. Euthanize your muse.
3. Perhaps a ceramics class?
4. Read all of Flannery O’Connor before you write anything ever again.
5. We doubt the mittens were drying on the “heating ducks” and that the family you write about went camping in a “Winner Bagel.”
The worse rejection I ever got said something like, “I find nothing to like about your main character, nothing to like about your story, and no reason to think that I would ever like to read anything of yours in the future. Good luck, though.”