Rejection

This morning I read a post at Paperback Writer, a site I’ve been following for the last six weeks or so, and it made me laugh out loud—really. And then, it made me very, very depressed because I am so at the-idiot-who-misses/ignores-the-cannibal-signs stage it hurts.

You can read the whole post here, but the gist is this: writing is as big a tangled mess as almost any profession worth pursuing, and because what is at stake is of one’s own creation, the loss at times is immeasurable while the small victories are enormous.

Great.

In an ironic twist of fate, the words I read fit everything I’ve done professionally, and given “writer” is now on my tax form right along with “teacher,” that makes this tapping of the keys my third profession.

Way to go, Shawn!

I remember watching Personal Best in the early 80’s, and one line from the film has always stuck with me: Scott Glen (as Terry Tingloff) says, “The high jump is a masochist’s event—it always ends on failure.”

I’ve often thought that line the perfect description of writing: it’s a masochist’s pursuit—it requires a willingness to fail. A lot. While pretending everyone who rejects you is a moron. No matter what.

True, this could be applied to almost any creative pursuit, but if I write a story, and it goes nowhere, I can’t hang it on my wall, or pour coffee into it, or give it to my friends as a gift. It hasn’t made my abs better or my teeth whiter or my clothes hang more elegantly. I can go back to it, decide whether or not it’s worth trying to save, and either “fix” it or kill it. And the rub is, unlike the painting or the ceramic, a story is basically useless unless it goes out into the world. (The only benefit a rejected story may have provided is teaching the writer something. But that’s not necessarily the case, either. Often, the story is good, but some other thing has prevented its being accepted/purchased.)

Now, my father is an artist and he’ll read this and disagree about my suggesting writing is any different from painting. He’ll remind me of all the paintings he’s failed to sell, and all the rejections he’s faced, and to a certain extent, he’ll be correct, but he will have missed one of the most significant differences, and the primary reason writing is so different from other creative endeavors.

He can post his paintings as often as he wishes and never face an inability to sell them or enter them in contests or submit them to a gallery because paintings and other similar creations are not exposure-limited like written pieces are.

The things I write that I intend to sell or enter into contests I must keep secret. Most publishers/contests do not accept simultaneous submissions, and they want first rights—often print and electronic. Meanwhile, the turnaround time regarding acceptance/rejection ranges from weeks to months. What this means is I spend months or years on a project, and then I begin at the top of my wish list of publishers/contests and send that baby off. And I can do nothing else with it until I hear back. Months later, when it’s rejected, I go to publisher/contest number two, and so forth.

Meanwhile, I have to create a whole new world before I can try to make a sale or win a contest. (Yes, I write because I love to, but to make it a career, I have to sell things and gain exposure.)

My dad—I love you dad, and I appreciate your support, so don’t be too mad—can paint a piece, photograph it, and send its photographic representative to as many places as he wants to—simultaneously. He can hang the same piece in a gallery while it resides virtually on his Web site and blogs, and he can take it from show to show to show without anyone batting an eye.

There is no limit placed on how or how often he exposes that one work of art.

Selling anything one has created is a matter of talent, luck, and exposure. Unfortunately, my works of art have to remain hidden like unwanted children or precious gems, and most of the time, they suffocate in the process.

I found out yesterday that my latest story submission has been rejected. It’s a really good piece called “The Battle That Raged On,” and I’d share it with you, except, I really believe in it, and I’ve already begun the process of sending it off to another potential publisher, so I can’t let you judge its value for yourself.

I can’t even post parts of it here to get a little positive feedback from my friends and family. I have to pull the knife out of my own back, lick my own wound, and kiss my baby goodbye yet again.

And wait.