Another day; another rejection.
It’s part and parcel of all writers’ lives. And as today’s rejection crashed onto the doormat, winding me like a boxer’s well-aimed punch (metaphores you understand…my in-box pings rather than crashes and I think my shoulders only sagged momentarily as I read the one line auto-email rejection), I decided to not let it incur too heavily on my day.
The attempt to carry on as normal was a failure, but the intent was there.
Rejection letters do ruin your day. At least, they ruin a good few minutes of mine. Then I remember the submissions I’ve yet to hear back from; the submissions I’m currently preparing; the submissions I’ve yet to even think about sending. It’s the thought (call it ‘hope’ if you will) of receiving something other than a rejection that keeps me sending my manuscript out. It’s the same thought that keeps me writing the sequel. It’s the same thought that spurs me on to formulate other projects.
Of course, rejection hurts. I would have to be a hard-hearted, mean-spirited kind of person not to feel it. Luckily, for those suffering from rejection’s cruel caress, there is the internet. Social media is platitude central when it comes to dealing with rejection, but try as I might, I can’t seem to squeeze any comfort from them. They feel anti-septic; wiped clean of real emotion; meaning bleached away.
In fact, they leave me wondering if people really live their lives by these words. Some folk’s social media postings worryingly suggest that they might. Am I missing something? What’s that you say? A heart? How rude.
Go on then…see if these speak to your soul:
No…not feeling it.
I’m not suggesting a rejection from an agent is exactly a struggle by the way…it’s not. Ask me again when the rejections hit fifty in number.
There’s undenyable rhythm to this one, it’s almost a bit rappy, but it still feel vacant; as if it’s been written by a Hallmark cards copy writer.
Thanks Bo. Stating the obvious ‘aint helping either.
Believe me, I can be bought. Name your price.
OK, so this one cheered me up; I admit it. But only because irony works every time. It doesn’t help me grow, or improve, or (and feel free to shoot me down for this) become more mindful. Of anything.
Incidentally, I thought Louise Brown was the world’s first test tube baby. Is she writing now?
Finally, and only because the internet just loves a cute animal…
I know the mouse is supposed to be doing chest pumps or something, but it still kind of looks dead to me. The cheese looks less perished.
If a photoshopped rodent helps you through a moment of rejection, well, good for you. I need something else. Something to own the word. Something to make me less scared of seeing it next time. And what better way to do this than with words themselves?
Come to think of it, that platitude with the rhythm, the one with the rap-sound…it’s given me an idea for a platitude of my own. Now I don’t need to pilfer off the internet for words of wisdom; I can turn to my own very own reminder to not giving in to rejection.
Here it is…feel free to copy and paste onto a background of your choosing and post and share with abandon. (But please don’t harm any defenceless mamals…that poor mouse…was it someone’s pet, do you think?)
An injection of rejection is cause for objection.
Subject it to ejection; save your writing from abjection.