Trying On Rejection
My therapist has a wonderful way of pointing out what I’m NOT saying. I sat on the couch, she in her chair that sits off to the right, not directly in front of the couch because that would be too threatening. Sitting off to the side gives clients the ability talk, breathe, cry without looking her in the eye because looking her in the eye would mean connecting and connecting is sometimes painful or too much.
She was asking me about my writing. She never asks me about things that I haven’t brought up first, so I must have mentioned it. I can’t imagine why. I usually go out of my way to not mention my writing, especially to non-writers.
“So, did you send it out?”
“My book? Well, yes. To a few agents, but my query letter needs work.”
“Why did you send it out before you were happy with the letter?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I thought the letter was good. I’d read all the blogs and manuals and whatever that tell you how to write one.”
“But now you don’t think it’s good.”
“It could be better.”
“Maybe you sent it out with an okay letter because you don’t expect for an agent to like it. Perhaps you are testing the waters, trying to see what rejection feels like.”
She had a point. Rejection is scary.
If you’re a writer who has the fortune to find acceptance early, congratulations, seriously. The rest of us are coats on a rack, crammed together, somewhat organized into light and heavy, casual and evening, traditional and fashion-forward. We’re different shapes, lengths, and colors and some are more popular, better sellers. We’re waiting for the right person to come by and see potential in a sleeve or collar and decide to separate us from the others.
Just try me on, we say. And they do.
Then, we get put back because we weren’t the right fit, or we were too trendy, too old-fashioned, not right for the occasion.
The writing process is isolating. Sure, I can sit down in a crowded coffee shop and work my way through a scene, while trying to ignore the gurgling and steaming and frothing sounds of the machines behind the counter or the kid running around while his mother and her friend catch up at the table next to me. I can be surrounded by people and be all alone with my writing. It’s mine. I’m in it. I’m filled with words and characters and places and the need to put them all together in a way that resembles a story. Writing is creating by myself.
Eventually, I have to ask someone else to look at it. I have to share. It’s the moment when I’m no longer alone with my story. This requires a perspective change. My story can’t be mine alone anymore. I have to let go of the parental relationship I have with my work and offer it up for judgment. To me, this is what makes rejection, whether from an agent or publisher or reader hard to take. The work has been mine for so long and now that I’ve invited someone in (why did I do that?!), someone that hasn’t been there during the hours of research, didn’t have a stake in plot devices or choosing character names — that person gets to decide what happens next.
I need to be open and aware that those who are judging are subject to many whims including whether or not he or she had time to eat breakfast. Is her “to read” pile full of stories just like mine? Can he personally not relate to my writing voice? I’ll understand because I’m a person, too.
Or maybe the book isn’t good enough.
I also have a choice. If I let it, rejection will become the coat I choose from the rack. It will be heavy and the sleeves too long, covering my hands. It will be hard to move forward wearing this coat, let alone write.
