But What Do They MEAN?

I overslept today, which means I’m skipping Thursday Thirteen (dear me, how did it get to be Thursday again!) and I’m going to talk about something else: understanding rejection letters.

Here’s my thoughts on the matter: don’t bother. Seriously, do not bother. Here’s why:

1. Half the time, they don’t mean anything, You’re combing through every syllable on the page, trying to glean some meaning out of a form rejection sent to both you and the person who stupidly sent the women’s fiction agent a cookbook.

2. Even when you haven’t gotten a form letter, there’s no guarantee that the letter you have received contains a shred of useful information. The rejection is, after all, just one person’s opinion. And though it is a learned, industry insider’s opinion, you have no way to tell if she is right. It could be a matter of taste.

3. And no way to tell if she is even telling the truth. She may be rejecting your work on the grounds that it sucks, that the characters are flat, that the pacing is slow, that the plot is overdone and, to top it off, that she just bought something else like it last week, but on the rejection letter, she doesn’t want to crush your little writer ego by , so she says something like, “I just bought something like this” or “I didn’t find myself falling in love with the characters.” True? Yes, but hardly helpful. And this is why so many writers, upon receiving such little gems of “feedback” proceed to kick their asses in attempts to rewrite according to the ‘specifications’ they’ve decoded in the rejection letter, only to receive another rejection on grounds that weren’t even mentioned in the first letter. Raise your hand if this has happened to you. ::Raises hand.::

The whole exercise is one of futility. I know how frustrating it can be for a writer to receive a rejection, and I’m familiar with the earnest wish, the fervent desire, well, if they could just TELL me what I’m doing wrong, I could fix it!

No, they can’t. And no, you can’t necessarily fix it either, even if they do. You must not rely on feedback from editors and agents to bring your work up to publishable level. To draw a comparison, that would be like relying on hospital administrators to turn you into a competent surgeon. You have to be a competent surgeon before you even get a job at the hospital. Once there, an admin can give you a performance review telling you if you need to work on your bedside manner or perhaps go to a conference to learn about new techniques, but you need to get to a certain level first.

Repeat after me: editors and agents don’t teach people to write.

No, that’s not easy, and no, that’s not fair, and yes, it’s frustrating as hell to keep working and working and working and winning contests and having everyone in your critique group tell you how good your work is, only to keep hearing the old “not quite right for us.” But I promise you, they’ll never be able to tell you how to fix it. You’ve got to get there on your own. Get a new critique group. Go to some master’s classes. Look more critically at your work. Write another book. Submit it to a different person. Any of these things will be able to help you more significantly.

Tor editor Theresa Nielsen Hayden writes in a brilliant essay called Slushkiller about the reasons she rejects manuscripts, and about the myriad ways that writers go about misinterpreting rejections, even the kindest and most helpful ones. Other editors and agents have stated that they’ve stopped providing feedback on rejections in favor of form letters in order to halt the flow of pointless resubmissions, requests for assistance the industry pro cannot provide, and other exercises in futility. Former editor Louisa Edwards has a whole series on her blog called “Decoding Disappointment” in which she attempts to “translate” rejection letters. Most entries in this series are characterized by the words “might” or “could.” The editor “might” have meant this. This letter “could” mean that.

Stop trying to decipher these things. No means no. Move on. Me, I’m a big fan of the form reject, no matter how much it stings. It means less time this neurotic writer spends trying to figure out what she could have done. (Trust me, I do this. I’m the one who reads a negative review of my book that mentions one awkward sentence and I pore through the manuscript, trying to divine what sentence that could be!)

Here’s the only exception: If the industry pro specifically states “if you address these issues, I’d be happy to look at the project again,” then you have the right, nay, the duty, to figure out what issues she’s talking about, fix them, and resubmit. Otherwise, Move. On. You’ll not regret it.