Soul Shelter

Rejection is a bothersome word. When one’s ideas or efforts are rejected, it can be hard to take it as anything but a setback–or worse: a cruel dismissal. As a writer, I’m extremely familiar with rejection. I’ve received hundreds upon hundreds of no’s for most every yes that’s come my way. And that’s just the behind-the-scenes part of what I do. Being a writer who hopes to sell books, I must also make occasional public appearances at bookstores or libraries, and every one of these events can lead to rejection of a more public nature. Sometimes, quite simply, no one shows up! One learns to be grateful for an audience of two or three, believe me.

So even with two novels, a score of published short stories, and the ostensible stamp of validation thought to come of critical acclaim, several no’s arrive at my door every week. In this we can observe a strange paradox about the life of a writer today: where the private undertaking of his or her art requires the writer to cultivate high sensitivity–a dependably thin skin–the public act of producing and marketing that art requires a skin of bovine thickness. (But I suppose that’s a subject for another post.)

Because rejection is such a fundamental part of my vocation, I’ve learned to look at it in a special light. As I see it, each no that arrives by mail, rather than being an explicit stumbling block, is actually a stepping stone bringing me closer to a yes. And as for those poorly attended public appearances, well, those too, though awkward, are a means of moving forward, for they ensure that my book enjoys a prominent display-place in a bookstore for at least a few weeks before and after my in-person visit. Thus the rejection of public appearances is offset, to a decent degree, by a longer-lasting promotional bonus, while rejections from publishers clarify my vision as an artist, shedding light on the path ahead to publication.

Multiple refusals of a single short story provoke me to evaluate the work with new eyes. Often I will find at least a few small improvements to make. Sometimes I find many, and re-haul the story accordingly, then send it out anew. Sometimes, too, after serious consideration, I remain convinced that a story is as perfect as I can make it on my own, and I conclude (with as much self-awareness as possible) that the rejections so far do not reflect the work’s strength or weakness, but merely the highly subjective submissions process, or perhaps some age-old dissonance of art and the marketplace.

I should add that it’s crucial, and extremely difficult, to tone the muscle of critical discrimation that enables you to stand firm and believe in the worth of what you’ve produced without deluding yourself or being unduly hardheaded. Striking this precarious balance is a talent useful in all aspects of life; I suspect it’s the trait we often refer to as faith or trust–and sometimes love. Ah, but that too is subject for another post…

Occasionally, when faced with innumerable rejections of a story I believe wholeheartedly to be the best I can produce, I simply resort to the uncomfortable assurance that rejections, now and then, signify nothing. They’re just the stripes my work must earn before it finally arrives in print.

I recall a visit I once paid to Jack London’s estate in Glen Ellen, California. I was honing my own skills as a young literary aspirant, and had yet to enjoy my first acceptance from a literary magazine, but I’d already amassed a score of form-letters. I stood studying the contents of a glass case. Two or three rejections for London’s work were displayed there. One said something like, “Nobody cares to read about the Yukon.” A museum placard next to that letter declared that Jack London had received 600 rejections before breaking into print. Fascinating and instructive, when you consider that London became one of the first American writers to survive exclusively by his pen. The literary world is a tough and crowded one–it always has been–and one can’t expect to glide sweetly into any single accomplishment. (Check out the wonderful website, The Rejection Collection.)

But I’m reminded of a maxim Tim and I included in our parable of “The Vengeful Priest” in The Prosperous Peasant:

Average effort produces average results, but extraordinary effort produces extraordinary results.

Now, in possession of two large shoeboxes crammed mostly with form letter no’s, I’m long past the point where even a hundred rejections can weaken my belief. If I’m committed to a story, and have worked and reworked it till it represents what I know to be the height of my powers–and still it continues to meet with rejection, I tend to derive strength and resolve from each no it receives. A peculiar response, I suppose, but useful!

There goes The New Yorker, there goes The Atlantic, but I see a distinguished literary magazine ahead! Each rejection reminds me that I’m on my way. Each is a landmark on this journey through my art.

Join us again this Thursday, when Tim will write about the importance of taking leaps.

See also: “Poverty, the Pulitzer, & the Beauty of Letting Go” and “Fulfillment: A Work in Progress“