Today I received the fastest rejection I’ve ever gotten for a piece of writing: two hours and forty-one minutes. I’d sent it off with a sense of hope, in the wake of a rejection that stung, thinking of myself as getting back on the proverbial literary horse. It’s a piece of writing that I like, one that I’m proud of. One that my writing partner said really stood out to her.
Still, it searches for a home.
This is how much of the year has gone. I’ve submitted more work to more places than I ever have before. And I have received way more rejections than ever before – 40something and counting. Usually I keep my chin up about it all. There are a million writers out there, all with so much to say, and so many readers. Most of the time, I can tell myself – truthfully – that to receive rejections is a sign that I’m truly working on this thing that I love.
Today, though, I’m feeling a little dejected. It’s hard to imagine that I’ll ever get to a point where I have a long list of publications. Perhaps that’s not undeserved: though I’ve always loved writing, I didn’t take it seriously in my life for a very long time. I didn’t study it in college, I don’t have an MFA, I can only take classes online and only here and there. Even though I get up at 5:00 six mornings of the week so that I have time to write on a regular basis, I haven’t put in the work the way that other people have for years and years. I don’t have enough raw talent to render discipline unnecessary; rather, I have just the right amount of talent that deems it as absolutely vital.
I have had my writing published a few times, in a few places. The level of satisfaction that I feel when that happens is momentarily wide, limitless, and then it’s quickly put in its place again and I get back to work. In that way, I feel more like a writer than I ever have before. I understand that I am not God’s gift to writing. I understand that this is a job. I understand that I have to have a tough skin. I understand that I can’t do this work for anything other than the satisfaction of doing it. Looking for external validation isn’t the basis for moving forward.
Still, today, I’m letting myself feel a little down about it. It would be nice – it is nice, when it rarely happens – to have someone say: wow, I loved this. Let me publish it. Let’s make sure other people read it, too.
Earlier today, when I received the rejection that stung, I decided to send out the piece quickly again. I read through it, and agreed myself that it was the way I wanted it to be. Sent it off, resolved to wait the couple months for whatever decision the editor came to. And instead, I found out right away that it wasn’t a good fit, that it didn’t resonate with the editor. The form rejection was kind – I’m a writer too, it said – but it remained just that: a rejection, and not a personalized one.
Here I am at my desk though. Processing. Accepting. Trying. Resolving to send my writing out again, hoping someone I admire might someday say yes.
The Wandering Introvert 