Examining the Rejection

Since deciding to put my work out there some eight months ago, I’ve gained a tidy collection of rejections. After receiving my most recent one today, I began to analyze what rejection means to me. I’ve read blog posts, articles and book chapters about rejection, but at that moment, I felt qualified to consider my own feelings about that little dagger to the heart.

The analysis was prompted by an event that took place yesterday–a day before the actual rejection arrived. I was driving home from my workout class and I remembered one word–one word–from the short story I had submitted on Friday. Yes, it was a warm day, but something closer to the heat of summer in the Gobi Desert crept up my face as I realized that I had misused the word. I went scrambling for my phone to look it up in my Dictionary app (I love that thing). Sure enough:

Inconceivable! Up until that moment, I’d been having a wonderful day. I’d pulled myself out of bed at a decent hour with enough time to sip-not-chug a cup of coffee, I found space at a barre in class without having to kick a classmate in the ankle during the studio invasion scramble, I even got a welcome mini foot massage from the teacher during cool-down. The sun was shining the birds were singing. But as soon as that word sneaked into my mind like a mean shard of glass bent on destruction from the inside out, the rest of my day spiraled until I had developed an affliction along the lines of self-hate-Tourette’s, groaning and verbally castigating myself at random every time the memory of that stupid word resurfaced. I rushed to my draft and found more to dislike about it. I knew what was coming.

As I reached down for a more productive perspective, I realized that what terrifies me most about rejection is the possibility that it will paralyze me. That, upon reading the rejection, I’ll sink deep into the tar pit of my unhappiness and decide writing isn’t for me after all. And then I’ll be a hull, ready to accept that the remainder of my days will be spent in an office, writing corporate copy. That the manuscripts will return to the dusty shelves in a land almost forgotten and I’ll never find it in me to retrieve them again because goodness knows it was hard enough the first time.

I will embarrass myself, offer my heart up to the gods, wrestle with time, sacrifice comfort, lose myself, lose sleep…all for that fleeting moment of acceptance and appreciation…

 

So I pulled myself out of that hole before I could go any deeper. I fashioned a rope from my ideas. I thought about that historical fiction piece I’ve been working on and what I could add to that; I stuck to my schedule and edited a few chapters of my novel manuscript; I thought about the flash fiction piece I’m planning to write for my graphic novel. I thought about what I didn’t like about the short story I had submitted and what I would have done differently.

This morning, I checked my email and there it was. The Rejection. I got that rare gem of feedback and it turned out the story was confusing.

What did I feel at that moment? Relief, acceptance, heartbreak, embarrassment? All of the above. But it was drive that shot far above the other sensations. Drive can be a desperate feeling, and it was at that moment, but desperate or not, it’s what saves me every time. I owe much of my creative development to drive. I need to see my work published, I need to gain that sense of accomplishment, and I will do anything to get it.

I will embarrass myself, offer my heart up to the gods, wrestle with time, sacrifice comfort, lose myself, lose sleep…all for that fleeting moment of acceptance and appreciation, knowing full well that I’ll be drenched in cold sweat, striving for it all over again after the briefest celebration.

And that’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it? In writing, you don’t “win” and that’s the end of that. I don’t say, I’m done, after a story is accepted for publication, so why should I say, I’m done, after a rejection?

My goal isn’t to get published once; it isn’t to write a book or a graphic novel. My goal is to publish as much quality work as I can before I’m shuffled off this mortal coil. Working toward that goal keeps me sane and makes me feel like I’m making use of my time on this crowded planet full of untested dreams.

So that’s it. Whether accepted or rejected, writing is a life-long process. It’s a marriage, for better or for worse–one that will likely bring as much pain as pleasure. And I can’t say I’d have it any other way.