One Rejection Closer

I got another rejection letter today, for a story I thought was sure to appeal to this particular editor. I still believe it’s a good story, and I plan to submit it elsewhere.

Having this attitude is progress for me. After receiving a rejection, I would read the manuscript with what I imagined were the eyes of that all-powerful editor, seeing it with all the warts I had failed to notice before. As its creator, I felt similarly exposed and diminished. I used to literally crumple up rejected manuscripts into balls, while metaphorically—OK, sometimes even literally—curling myself into the fetal position.

If I had persisted in this pattern of receiving rejections, there’s no doubt in my mind I would have given up writing a long time ago. Back then, it hadn’t occurred to me that my dream of having something to say in the English language might be stronger than any stinkin’ rejection letter. Or five, or twenty-five, or even more, if that’s what it takes to finally be heard. This has certainly happened to more successful authors than me. Madeleine L’Engle, the author of A Wrinkle in Time, received dozens of rejection letters before Farrar, Straus & Giroux published it.

How did it happen that a hypersensitive person lacking confidence in my abilities got some much-needed perspective about rejection? It wasn’t just one thing that led me to finally develop that tougher hide my mother was always urging me to get. For a long time, I resisted even getting a tougher hide, in the mistaken belief that doing so would harm my gift, a gift that was inextricably linked to sensitivity. I had bought the stereotype of the Sensitive Artist hook, line and sinker. I was protecting myself too much, putting myself in a bubble, and ensuring that I would never develop a zest for risk-taking, and its partner, a tolerance for failure. I toiled and fussed and toiled some more over my essays, poems and stories, afraid to let anyone read them until they were perfect. Of course they were never perfect. When I did show my writing, I invariably interpreted any suggestion for improvement as proof that the entire piece was adulterated, and I would lose interest in it altogether. At this rate, I was never going to be the writer I dreamed of being.

Along the way I have taken in some criticism that has been instructive and constructive. A respected professor told me that the abrupt endings to my essays didn’t do justice to the well-considered points I had raised earlier. She suggested that I put extra thought and energy into endings, and I have done my best to follow her advice to this day. After I confessed my fear of rejection in a writing workshop, a kind soul took me aside and said, “You can’t hit the ball out of the park unless you go up to bat.” I’ve also learned to accept encouragement from others, to really accept it, instead of viewing praise as a mere drop in a bucket full of criticism. For instance, I’ve been living on a career counselor’s remark that she thought I had the talent to do whatever I wanted with my writing.

Which leads me to another point. Success isn’t going to come just because you have some talent. You can have all the talent for writing in the world, but you also need perseverance and confidence. A co-worker who quit the magazine we both worked on to write her own books discovered this. After spending her entire career writing for magazines and newspapers, she figured she had a leg up on those with less experience. But not even that prepared her for the terror of sitting down in front of a blank screen and creating something out of nothing. “Now I know why people give up on their dreams,” she confided. Sheryl Crow says it well in her song, “Maybe That’s Something:” “Making miracles is hard work/ Most people give up before they happen.”

One of the things I am most grateful for is the gift of time. I have been blessed to live long enough to develop the confidence to write about what I want to write about and to say it the way I want to say it, instead of worrying too much about whether some editor is going to have mercy on me and publish my writing. I don’t have much power over whether my writing gets published, but I do have power over the way I go about my business. I’m taking matters into my own hands. I am part of a writer’s critique group that serves as a critical, and I might add, loving audience for my work. I have found a wonderful website ourecho.com that allows writers to self-publish. I am also creating a website of my own. Most importantly I continue to sit in front of my computer screen every day to write my novel, short stories and essays.

I’ve also come to a kind of peace with my sensitivity. Artists must be sensitive when they’re creating, while detaching themselves from the results of their work. That includes detachment from those unwelcome yet inevitable rejection letters, as well as letters of acceptance. It doesn’t pay to get too excited about either. It’s best to be like the actor who accepts a role thinking it might be the last he ever gets—pour everything you’ve got into doing your best work every chance you get.

This morning’s rejection letter was like getting a booster shot. It’s inoculating me against the refusals I will surely receive in the future. Sure, it was uncomfortable, and it even hurt, but less than I expected it to, and less than I remember it hurting in the past. My motto is “One Rejection Closer” (or for fellow Tolkien fans, ORC). The rejection letter I got today is another rejection behind me. The next one and the one after that puts me one rejection closer to the success I seek, whether that’s finding an editor to publish my story or writing a sentence that makes sense and may even be wise.

Story ID:	2075
Written by:	Diana Shellenberger (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Longmont CO USA
Year:	2007