a tale of rejections

I received my first fiction rejection on May 6, 2003. (We shall not discuss romantic rejections.) It was for a partial that had been requested by an editor from a query letter and sent seven months before. Unlike college admittance letters, a fat package was not a good thing. My mother opened it (I was out of town on business) and read me the letter over the phone. She was in tears as she said, “Oh, honey, they aren’t going to publish it.”

“Mom,” I said. “It’s okay.”

You see, in the year between the time I finished writing the book and the time I got the rejection letter for it, I’d joined RWA and learned that rejection letters? So common. So not a big deal. So a rite of passage, to be borne with pride. like a battle scar on a hardened warrior. This was my first book. And I got a request, and a rejection letter that went on for several paragraphs and asked for something else by me. I was pretty happy with it. Plus, I knew by that time that this book? Not so good.

I got my second rejection letter two weeks later, and I cried like a baby. This was the third project I’d written, a sexy little novella. I thought it was my best yet. I’d finished it in April and submitted. I was way too close to it. The rejection letter was a few lines long, though focused on specific elements of my book, enough so that I knew it was not a form letter. It also asked for something else, though at the time, I was very focused on the fact that it said that though my wirting was good and lively, that my story was not romantic. It said it three times, as a matter of fact, and mandated that, should I ever submit to this editor again, to “Remember: romance, romance, romance!”

Then we got to 2004, Rejection Central.

My third and fourth rejections came hard on the heels of one another in February of that year, one from an agent whom (like that, Justine?) I eventually ended up signing with, the other from an editor, both for the fulls of the same book, both a month or two after the work had been submitted. Both asked to see something else from me. Noting a pattern?

Rejection five came in April, a good ten months after I’d submitted the partial for a book to an editor. Form letter. Ouch, that stung. Never had one of those before.

However, by that point, I was hooked. I figured that my way of going about getting rejection letters took too long, and didn’t get enough results. So I proceeded to submit to many more places. And get many more. A few dozen agents, no waiting. August and September were especially fun, since the bulk of my agent rejections landed in those months. Plus a few hurricanes and a few editor rejections, for good measure. Several more trickled in in October and November. I had a crisis of faith in the beginning of October, which was thankfully averted when I won a pretty little writing award.

Most of these were form letters. Some said, “we don’t like this, and here’s why.” A few were rude, telling me that they didn’t acquire my kind of submission, instead, they acquired romance and women’s fiction (what did they think I’d sent them, a cookbook?) I figured I got the wrong letter stuffed in my SASE. They meant to use the *other* form letter rejection. I got a few “really love this, but my list is full or I have no idea how we’d market it, but I’m sure someone else will.” I liked those “close calls.”

I stopped fussing over form letters. I liked the simple “Not for me, better luck elsewhere” on a 3×5 card far better than the 3 page rejection that, before it was over, said it liked/hated my voice loved/was annoyed by my main character enjoyed/ was bored by my plot, and thought my hero was winning/pathetic. I’d prefer no feedback to contradictory feedback, frankly.

In 2005, I got one more (well, two more if you include the form letter that was followed up immediately by a phone call from the agent saying she was sending it out for a second opinion — she said the form letter had been a mistake). The legitimate one was a few paragraphs about how she thought it was pretty good, but wasn’t wild enought o take it on, and please send her something else. Shades of my first few rejections.

A week later, I got my first offer of representation. After signing with my agent, we sent my book out. A lot of interest, a few passes. The passes took the form of all the other rejections I’d ever gotten. Don’t like it, not for our list, good but not crazy enough about it, nice voice, send us something else she’s written, etc. Then we sold the book.

I’m not done getting rejections. I’d like to make sure that gets stated. Everyone gets them. Bestselling authors get them. I have proof.

I know some people who cry over every single rejection. I know some people who aren’t effected by any. I’m somewhere in the middle. Some rejections sting more than others.

I know some people who burn all of their rejections. I don’t know why they do this. I mean, for tax purposes alone, it’s good to have these records. I also like to have the written evidence of the path I’m taking. I like to be able to remember why it is that I have such warm feelings towards that agent who I’ve never worked with. Oh, yeah, that’s right, because in her rejection she said that my hero was to die for and I’d no doubt have a wonderful career, but she’s not taking on any new clients right now, and besides, where would she sell a book that wasn’t quite a paranormal romance, but wasn’t a straight romance, either?

I think a lot of aspiring writers get very caught up in their rejections. Earlier in my career, I did the same thing. I think it’s mostly a waste of time to pore (another contest entry fuckup, for those of you following along fro the last post. I said “pore over paperwork” and the stupid idiot contest judge said “pour”) over your rejection letters, trying to divine some meaning from them. Do I think that the agency that said they didn’t handle my type of project REALLY thought I’d sent them a cookbook instead of a romance? Were they trying to tell me something about my romance? Come on… I truly believe that sometimes, even when they are trying to give a reason for their “no,” they’re full of shit. I see al ot of writers trying to figure out what an editor means, what is the secret code behind “just didn’t love it enough” or “not right for our list.” They spend HOURS trying to figure this out. They enlist the help of everyone in their writing group. You’re never going to get an answer, buddy. They’re just not that into you.

Still, if something resonates for you, then by all means, listen to it. I got a rejection from one editor that made statments about the way the sexual tension was presented in the opening chapters, and, looking over them, I thought she was right, so I addressed that in my revisions. But I also realized that maybe my novella wasn’t “romantic” enough for the publisher that rejected it, but that’s all. That one editor had a certain view of what was romantic and mys tory didn’t fit. But I don’t spend a lot of time deciphering rejection letters anymore. Nine times out of ten, you don’t learn aything from them.

I think part of the reason people pay so much attention letters to them is because they pay so much attention to the submissions themselves. I did this, too. If I got a request from, say, Cindy Hwang, I would do all kinds of research about the Berkley publishing program. I’d spend months imagining myself as a Berkley author, and trying to think of what that would mean for my career and blah blah blah blah… Talk about putting the cart before the horse! A slush pile submission, unagented, and I’m already picturing myself with the book in hand. I think the key is trying to divorce expectation for your submission. Hope for the best, of course, but don’t focus on it. This is why it got easier when I queried 20 agents at once. One rejection out of 20 hurts less than one rejection out of one. (We won’t talk about what 18 out of 20 feels like.) And that’s one of hte myriad reasons why I like having an agent, too. She handles the submission stuff. I’m already one step removed, so when she says, “So and so has passed, so and so is getting another read,” I can just be like, “Cool, great, let me know what happens.” I have a writer friend who tells her agent not to tell her about rejections. Just about offers. I’m too much of a control freak for that, but I can see the benefits.

A very wise agent recently addressed this topic. One thing she says is to stop saying “so and so rejected me.” They didn’t they rejected the one project you sent them. (My agent rejected one project I sent her, too. Big whoop.) They might have taken the next. (mine did.) I know she’s right. (She rejected one of my books, too.)