In the Absence of “Yes”
— What can we do when subject to decisions beyond our control? —
Yesterday brought a new rejection letter to my door. It arrived, as do they all, in a white business envelope I’d self-addressed some months before. The rejection was of the paper-saving variety favored by today’s quarterlies, a xeroxed quarter-page containing a terse, impersonal, and uninformative message amounting to: “Nope, not this time and probably not ever.”
The submission in question was an essay written over the course of last year, a piece I worked and re-worked, read and re-read, and finally came to like quite a lot. It’s no boast to state that it shaped up to be a learned, insightful, provocative, and personal exploration of a subject in which I hold established credentials (the humbling year-long process of its composition allows me to say so without delusion or inordinate pride).
Upon its completion, I prepared submissions and dispatched the piece to the mail with the warming prophetic tingle that often accompanies work well done: this thing was bound to see publication someplace worthy of it, i.e., one of our more distinguished literary magazines.
The first several rejections rolled in, each accompanied by a handwritten note from an editor complimenting the essay and then professing equal remorse for its rejection.
Ah, the curiosities of literary taste. I recalled the consoling wit of Wallace Stegner, one of our greatest writers — and one perennially bewildered by the vicissitudes of critical preference and editorial decision-making:
Literary fashion is a virus for which there is no vaccine, and if you happen to grow up a smallpox type in a cholera time, you might just as well reconcile yourself to faint praise, faint damns, faint yawns…
I sealed, stamped, and mailed further submissions. Ambivalent editorial compliments answered almost every one.
So I revisited the work, scrutinizing, scouring it for weaknesses. I strove to see how I might improve it. But without complacency, without smugness, I just … liked it. I felt reaffirmed of its readiness for publication, its power.
More submissions… More conflicted No’s.
And yesterday’s note was the sixteenth rejection. Sixteen.
It’s worth noting that a short story I’ve been sending around for more than two years recently garnered its thirty-seventh rejection — and this on the heels of three rejected fellowship applications and a handful of queries flatly ignored by the editors I’d sent them to.
Two years ago I treated the subject of rejection here at Soul Shelter, writing this:
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.
That has the benefits of optimism, but feeling as I feel today, I know it can’t be the whole story. It fails to account for the fact that sometimes (often?) the “yes” never arrives — just flat-out doesn’t come along. For sometimes it doesn’t matter how hard one has labored, how seriously one has regarded the task at hand, or how deserving one’s work may be.
The proverbial road of one’s career, even for those already “on their way,” is rarely one of ever-increasing ease. In fact, after multiple publications and a share of honors, I’m discovering, 
to my own dismay, that it actually gets harder. That “Yes” — most longed-for, most necessary — is never guaranteed.
Everybody’s got a blind spot or two, even the most experienced editors. Moreover, forces both cynical and wholly arbitrary do frequently come to bear on the making of decisions, whether we’re talking about our better literary quarterlies, a neighborhood art gallery, the halls of government, or the endemic culture of any organization large or small. Fashions, favors, nepotism, “insider-trading,” ad-revenue, moral presumptions, allergies, upset tummies, hangovers, serotonin deficiencies, and above all personal taste can stand between us and whatever we or our work rightfully deserve.
For my own part, whenever faced with the refusal of editors to stand by writing they openly admire, I tend to wonder whether I may be living and writing in the wrong era. Maybe my stuff is unwanted because it’s “uncool.”
Think of Henry James, I tell myself. In 1895 James wrote:
I have felt, for a long time past, that I have fallen upon evil days — every sign or symbol of one’s being in the least wanted, anywhere or by anyone, having so utterly failed. A new generation, that I know not, and mainly prize not, has taken universal possession.
Six years later, however, James’s commitment had flagged not at all. Still going hard in “the madness of art,” he breathlessly goaded himself in his journal of 1891:
I am in full possession of accumulated resources — I have only to use them, to insist, to persist, to do something more — to do much more — than I have done. The way to do it…is to strike as many notes, deep, full, and rapid as one can. … Go on, my boy, and strike hard. … Try everything, do everything, render everything — be an artist, be distinguished, to the last.
And there’s the rub.
A century later, in a little essay called “First Books,” the great Andre Dubus offered a statement of faith worthy of James (read closely and you see these guys are talking about more than writing):
All these truths and quasi-truths…about publishing are finally ephemeral…What is demanding and fulfilling is writing a single word, trying to write le mot juste, as Flaubert said; writing several of them, which become a sentence. When a writer does that, day after day, working alone with little encouragement, often with discouragement flowing in the writer’s own blood, and with an occasional rush of excitement … the treasure is on the desk. If the manuscript itself, mailed out to the world, where other truths prevail, is never published, the writer will suffer bitterness, sorrow, anger, and, more dangerously, despair…But the writer who endures and keeps working will finally know that writing the book was something hard and glorious, for at the desk a writer must try to be free of prejudice, meanness of spirit, pettiness, and hatred; strive to be a better human being than the writer normally is, and to do this through concentration on a single word, and then another, and another. This is splendid work, as worthy and demanding as any, and the will and resilience to do it are good for the writer’s soul.
After filing away my essay’s latest rejection, I sit down to my own journal and write the following:
“It’s not a matter of what you deserve, and — more to the point — certainly not a matter of what you think you deserve. All that matters is what you’re committed to, and how you honor that commitment, and — sometimes — what you are blessed by.”
You may also enjoy:
How to Achieve Even While Losing
Fulfillment: A Work in Progress
What Do We Really Need to Be Happy?
The Lonely Novelist’s Five-Point Productivity Plan
Roadblocks, Restrictions, and Other Helpful Things
In Praise of Salaried Employment
14 Comments to In the Absence of “Yes”
Mark…I’ve so enjoyed your writing, but like many I’m sure, I read it and then don’t bother to comment. Well, comment now I will. I find your work intelligent, thought-provoking, evocative, entertaining, and lots of other multi-syllable words for, “Damn, I wish I’d written that.”
I know, I know, there are a certain amount of “nos” before the big, fat wonderful “yes,” but that doesn’t make it any easier. Still, you’ve managed to turn out a wonderful piece about the un-wonderful experience of rejection.
Thanks for what you do. Write on.
Hi Mark, congratulations on your latest stepping-stone. I have to confess, I used to write a lot, but when it came right down to it I was not sufficiently ambitious about my writing to make the constant uncertainty and repeated rejections worthwhile. I’m fairly certain that if I had persisted, I would have succeeded in publishing. But since I never really tried, I’ll never know, and that’s okay. I’m leaving the field open for those of you who are willing to do the hardest part of the hard work.
For the occasional writer who gets the bestseller deal on the first submission on his/her first manuscript, there are hundreds or thousands more like you, who persist, who are committed, who are faithful. And who – need it be said – are often much better writers than that freakishly successful novice.
I have your book at home and will be reading it soon. In the meantime, this blog has become a must-read for me.
The important thing to remember about rejection letters is that the vast majority of the time, your piece was never read. Unless the person opening the item knows of you, your submission was likely dumped into an “unsolicited submissions” pile, which editors only dip into if they need space for something.
That’s one of the drawbacks of the “buddy-buddy” system of print publishing. It rarely has to do with merit, but has to do with who you know.
It’s a big reason why I prefer writing online. It’s much easier to publish, and it’s much easier for good writing to pick up steam via word of mouth. You might not earn as much directly, but a good essay on your blog that’s linked to extensively on Twitter and other blogs can bring you regular readers who are then much more likely to buy your books, attend your talks, and so on.
[...] In the Absence of “Yes” How can we handle situations where the key decision that makes up success or failure is completely outside our control? We all face these situations – in essence, a job application is that very thing. I really like the advice here, and it’s left me thinking for days (I also left a long comment there). (@ soul shelter) [...]
My reactions to this piece are complex, and I’ve been trying to sort them into some logical order for a couple of days now. Let’s see how well I succeeded. (And just to be perfectly clear, when I use “you” I’m using it in a generic sense.)
It seems to me that whether or not “yes” ever comes is irrelevant. If a thing (the writing) is worth doing, it is worth doing — regardless of future outcomes. Write because you want to write. Submit in an attempt to publish if you want to. But do not confuse the two.
Whether the response is “yes” or a “no” should be irrelevant when you sit down to write again tomorrow. If a “yes” changes your life — or if a “no” changes your life — then it seems to me that there’s something wrong. You’re not approaching the writing for its own sake, which suggests that the writing has no inherent value to you other than as a chance at getting published. It’s not, if you will, worth doing, and therefore perhaps you shouldn’t.
I would respectfully disagree with Peggy’s last paragraph. “Yes” has to come from inside. However, a person does not live in a vacuum, and most people want others to see/experience their work. That, I think, is where the urge to publish or perform comes from. The inherent value of an activity, at some point, is likely to be subsumed by a desire for recognition, if not profit.
Every activity has a cost-benefit ratio. If a person has multiple talents, as most people do, but the person feels more satisfied or productive or successful (e.g. receives complimentary feedback) in expressing one talent compared to others, the person may choose to devote less time to the less-satisfying talents. It’s not that the person finds no inherent value in expressing those talents; just that there is only so much time, space, and money for a person to spend on developing his/her talents. A line has to be drawn, in other words.
I referred above to my lack of ambition with regard to writing, but I’ve taken it pretty far. I have screenplays, novels, a suite of sonnets, a stage musical, songs, and a one-act play to my credit (plus a year-old blog) but to ME, pursuing publication or production had less value than the actual writing. The desired outcome was not a sale, but a completed work. That said, I did – and do – want people to read what I’ve written!
It just seems to me a better use of my time/space/money to prioritize the talent (dancing) that likely has an expiration date (meaning a time at which my ability is reduced, by age or injury, to the point that expressing the talent no longer gives joy). It doesn’t mean that I’ve said “no” to any other talents, though. I’m only saying “later.”
For someone who is deeply fulfilled by writing, an external rejection may sting, but it will not render the writer less committed. The internal (and essential )”yes” is still there.
[...] In the Absence of “Yes” How can we handle situations where the key decision that makes up success or failure is completely outside our control? We all face these situations – in essence, a job application is that very thing. I really like the advice here, and it’s left me thinking for days (I also left a long comment there). (@ soul shelter) [...]
[...] In the Absence of “Yes” How can we handle situations where the key decision that makes up success or failure is completely outside our control? We all face these situations – in essence, a job application is that very thing. I really like the advice here, and it’s left me thinking for days (I also left a long comment there). (@ soul shelter) [...]
[...] In the Absence of “Yes” How can we handle situations where the key decision that makes up success or failure is completely outside our control? We all face these situations – in essence, a job application is that very thing. I really like the advice here, and it’s left me thinking for days (I also left a long comment there). (@ soul shelter) Five Ways to Get Started Making Money Online This basically outlines the five ways to make long term, sustainable money online. However, these methods are a time sink up front if you want to really build any degree of lasting success with them. (@ dumb little man) [...]
@ Mary: Thanks so much for chiming in, and for your valued readership. I too have a few blogs I read and appreciate but rarely comment on. After your kindness here, I’ll now take the time to drop a line on one or two. I’m grateful for your encouragement.
@ Alexandra: I can’t say how much I appreciate your comments. What a privilege to know that Soul Shelter counts as a “must-read” for one obviously very gifted herself with the written word. Yours and Mary’s comments plinked down into a routine, rather drab day for me, and lent it a nice little shimmer. So glad you took the time to lend your voices. (And I was glad to see that in your second comment you recanted your claim of having backed off of writing: your terrific blog is a testament to the contrary.)
@ Trent: A good – and all too often accurate – point about the dreaded slush pile, the destiny of far too many good writers who simply lack inside connections: I know a bit about that ugly fact after some stints on the masthead of a few quarterlies, and I continue the battle against a resultant cynicism. Online publication, as you say, may be an answer. Many thanks for your links!
@ Peggy: Good to hear from you as ever. Your words reminded me of T.S. Eliot’s in “Four Quartets”: “For us there is only the trying. / The rest is not our business.”
@ All: In recent years I’ve had many a conversation with fellow writers about the subject of this post, which I think is what finally gave rise to the post itself. There’s a creepily universal feeling among us: we all assumed, sort of, that having been published — having “established one’s credentials” in the form of magazine contributions, novels, critical applause, awards, etc. (we’ve all attained each) — would make getting, and staying, published easier. Or ought to anyhow. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? You do good work, you push through rejection and get recognized, and you’re allowed to do and share more good work. And yet each one of us, our firm publication histories notwithstanding, finds that the challenges confronting us have only increased. Our good work languishes in lonely rooms. Calls go unreturned, queries ignored, manuscripts rejected: and this deafness, these cold shoulders, from people we’ve already worked with. It always brings to mind Woody Allen’s line from Crimes & Misdemeanors (referring to the film industry): “It’s dog eat dog. No, it’s worse than dog eats dog, it’s dog doesn’t return other dog’s phone call.” No, it only gets harder. Ah, but we persist. Call us the Struggling Established, the Honorably Obscure, the Foolhardy Diligent. It is truly, as Frederick Busch has called it, “a dangerous profession.” But then, in the end, we remember that it isn’t a profession after all. It’s a calling. And in a calling, commitment matters more than attainment.
Not sure whether you have read (or learnt otherwise) about the Bhagavadgita, but the final paragraph (the journal entry) encapsulates lot of the principles in there.
@ Subba: You’re spot on. The following passage from the Gita has meant much to me for many years now: “Be intent on action, not on the fruits of action. Avoid attraction to the fruits and attachment to inaction.” You might like a prior post, “Fulfillment: A Work in Progress” which also gleans a lot from that timeless Hindu text. Thanks for your comment. Peace, ~Mark
No commentator mentioned this and I thought I would; How blessed you are to be able to examine your work and pronounce it ready. You know when you have reached enough; are comfortable enough with the mastery of your craft not to undermine the work with constant tweaking.
In my own work, I rarely reach the point where it satisfies me, where I think, “Right, well, that one’s finally done. Time to find a publisher.” Rather, I play with it until, like a child’s toy, I set it aside for other things that interest me. Often, when I read of someone or the other who requests something like what I know is in my toybox, I’ll send it along with my compliments; “Here you are, I have no use for this anymore. If you don’t want it, no hard feelings.” Thus, the surprise and delight I feel when someone seizes upon my castoffs and even better, wants to pay me, is like finding buried treasure while exploring a beach for pretty seashells.
I guess what I’m saying is, the Gita’s got it dead on, both for you and for me. Focus on the joy of creation.
@ Nana — Thanks for the thoughts. You allude to a difficult fact: it’s no simple thing to examine one’s work and deem it ready for publication. Though I’ve developed a knack for this over the years, my inner editor is far from infallible.
I touched on this in a post a few years back: “Its crucial, and extremely difficult, to tone the muscle of critical discrimination 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.”
The most important thing, as you put it, is to focus on the joy of creation.
Thanks for reading. ~Mark