Acceptance/Rejection. Two sides of the very same coin. Welcome to the publishing world.
Please note: Not, “Welcome to the writing world!”
Publishing—Writing. Writing—Publishing. Two different words. Two different activities. Two different universes.
There is one guaranteed way to avoid literary rejection, and that is not to seek literary acceptance. It’s easy, simple, and honorable. Since we’re all writing for our own sakes anyway, there is nothing on earth more straight-forward than producing the work you want to produce and going directly on to further adventures.
My son has five hard-bound 200-page chapter books on his shelf that I’ve written for him every Winter Solstice for the past five years. There’ll be another one this year.
Why aren’t I out there peddling those babies to agents? Are they not well-written? Are they not designed properly for their audience? Do I not think anyone but my son would ever love them? (Which he does—he re-reads them in their entirety every few months.)
No. They’re great books! We all enjoy them, almost as much as we enjoy blowing the minds of his friends’ parents when they see them. Someday I might even think about selling them. (Okay, one of them is with a children’s literary agent right now, but I keep forgetting.) But the purpose of writing them was to give my son terrific reading material, and when I’d achieved my purpose. . .guess what? I went directly on to further adventures.
You know why? Because I know a secret. I know how little publishing authors really get paid.
So when you’re clutching your chest and staggering across the room with that rejection letter crumpled in your hand, remember—you got yourself into this game. You can get yourself out again. And if you decide to stay, take to heart the advice of the professionals you will be dealing with about how this game is played:
Dealing with Rejection, by Gabrielle Harbowy of Dragon Moon Press in San Francisco, lists seven points to consider when staring dumbstruck and heartbroken at that rejection letter you just got out of your mailbox. She also lists most of the following links, which I will reproduce for you below in case you skip that part at the bottom of her post—a common and dastardly habit of blog-readers the world over—because they really are that important and she really did track these down herself:
In Dealing with Silence and Rejection, witer/director Earl Newton responds to the letter you want to write, crying abjectly, “But why. . .?”
Investment, by thriller writer Joe Konrath, lists eight things to do rather than write that letter to Earl Newton.
In The Art of Reading Rejection Letters, literary agent Nathan Bransford suggests some good might come of taking a hard look at that rejection letter (assuming it’s not a form rejection, which of course could mean anything), along with a reminder that agents aren’t “STUPID. Most of the time.”
Why It’s Hard to Tell the Whole Truth, by literary agent Rachelle Gardner, admits the ugly, secret truth behind the agent’s end of the dreaded rejection letter.
Finally, I’ve written a post on rejection, myself, which I let Laverne Daley re-post on her site for freelance writers, Words Into Print, and which I will direct you to here because Laverne has been immensely generous to me with her professional advice, and you all should be reading her: Handing Rejection.
You’re going to notice a common theme running through these articles: agents are not editors. They do not get paid to tell you how to make your manuscript publishable. And they don’t have time to do it free because they have—what do you know?—real paying jobs that eat up all their time. I’m not going to get your work published for you, and an agent is not going to tell you how to fix your story.
I can’t tell you how vital this distinction is in the game, friends: agents are not editors.
You’re going to get along a whole lot better with them both now that you know.
Rejection is something that pops up in pretty much every field. I just wrote an entry on dealing with rejection both as a neuroscientist and a writer.
You’re right, Livia. The world is full of rejection. You’d think we’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?
Victoria
Livia’s right. Rejection comes from everywhere, every day. My toddler tells me “NO” about 800 times a day. Talk about rejection. I’m used to it.
As far as my writing goes, I’m not setting up myself to think that my books are every going to make me a penny. That’s not why I’m writing. I’ve just realized this past week what my writing has done for me lately. It’s brought me and my husband closer together than a lot of things have, and if that’s not a reason to keep writing, I don’t know what is. I should write a blog post about that. 🙂
Thank you for all those links!
That’s hilarious about your toddler, Michelle. When a close friend and his wife considered adoption a few years ago, I said, “Just so you know, having a child means having someone saying, ‘No’ to you for the next eighteen years,” and he said back, “I’m a standard American male with a fabulous Type A doctor wife. If hearing ‘No’ was a problem for me, I’ve have been history years ago.”
You’re in the toddler No’s—we’re coming up on the teenager No’s. You’d think one would prepare you for the other, but I’m guessing not really.
And that’s wonderful about you and your husband! The marvels of fiction work in mysterious ways.
Victoria
i find that rejection is easier to deal with if you have a good dozen or so irons in the fire. the pain never dulls – it shouldn’t; it’s best use that pain to fuel the process – but putting all your literary eggs in one publisher’s basket creates an disproportionate burden upon that single outcome. if it fails, then what do you have? i’ve made this mistake for years (and will do it repeatedly forever, i’m sure).
Yes, Chris, the trick to handling rejection is to stay in motion. Don’t sit there and wait for someone to lower the boom. Keep moving.
The pain dulls in proportion to one thing, and one thing only: your own accurate assessment of your skills. Rejection comes from relying on others to tell you how good or bad you are.
I’ll write a post on this for Pulp Rag.
I’m guessing Mario Vargas Llosa doesn’t worry too much about whether or not fledgling American literary agents would understand his work if they didn’t recognize his name.
And it’s not because he’s published. It’s his craft.
Victoria