As a writer, I have been rejected thousands of times, and it initially led to shock, denial and anger. Then I accepted it. Here’s what you can gain from doing so too.
Getting rejected, especially if it happens repeatedly, is not a great experience. Someone is turning you down cold, taking a hard pass, telling you: “Nope.” I work as a writer, so I am no stranger to rejection. I started pitching story ideas and submitting manuscripts 50 years ago, when I graduated from college. In that time, I have had two novels rejected, as well as proposals for nonfiction books, short stories and numerous pitches for articles. Over the last 20 years, since turning my hand largely to personal essays and op-eds, I have been rejected even more. In a typical week, I get a rejection every few days – more than 100 times a year. Rejections accumulated over the course of my career run in the thousands. By now, I should have a PhD in rejection.
So is this feature to be a woe-is-me rant? Far from it. Because, finally, at the age of 73, I have accepted rejection.
How have I managed this? How have I equipped myself to take a setback in my stride – or even shrug it off? Some context: By this stage in my life, just about everyone and their distant cousin has given me a thumbs-down. I’ve never kept score of my win-lose ratio – doing so would be deeply dispiriting. A case in point: recently, a newspaper editor I work with nixed 20 submissions in a row before saying, “OK, I’ll take it,” to one. In 2016, no fewer than 50 book publishers vetoed my proposal for a memoir before one gave me the green light. A few years later, 25 literary agents declined a nonfiction book proposal. One editor to whom I frequently submitted work became so frustrated with my submissions that she asked me a question no editor had ever asked me before: would I please send her my potential guest essays less often? Say, once a month?
In my 20s, when starting out in my career, all rejections stung. I took them personally. It was not just my work being rejected, I felt, but me as a person. No sooner would a manuscript be rejected than I would start to undergo what I’ve called the “seven stages of rejection”: First, the shock. How could this happen? How could these people be blind to my talent? Second, denial. Surely you’ve rejected the wrong person? This must be an administrative error. Third, dismissal. What do any of you know? Who appointed you to hand down rulings on my labours? You’re stupid and your publication stinks. I reject your rejection. Fourth, anger at those who rejected me, followed by anger at myself. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let myself in for these slings and arrows from strangers rendering verdicts on my work? Am I a masochist or martyr? Fifth, bargaining (preferably liberally seasoned with delusion). What will it take to convince you to recognise me as a once-in-a-generation talent? Sixth, depression. I’m no good. What’s more, I’ll never be any good.
Of course, I was in excellent company. Tales of writers whose work was initially rejected are legion. Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. James Joyce’s Dubliners. Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. Almost every writer of repute was initially spurned. If they could overcome rejection, then maybe I could, too. Michael Jordan was dropped from his high school basketball team. Most US presidents over the last 60 years had previously lost elections of some sort: Lyndon B Johnson, Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, George HW Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump. Sylvester Stallone estimates that his script for Rocky and his bid to be the film’s star were turned down 1,500 times. “I take rejection as someone blowing a bugle in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat,” he has said.
Then, as I reached my 60s and my 70s, I entered the seventh stage of rejection. Acceptance. Now, I better understand the many reasons why someone says no. For starters, an editor may have recently run a similar piece, or already have one in the pipeline, or just be contemplating something along the same lines for another contributor to pursue. Or, less promisingly, my pitch is of limited interest. Or the editor believes I lack the credentials or stature to fit the bill. Or is no longer in the market for the wares I am peddling. Or was too distracted and read my submission too fast to appreciate its abundant merits. Go ahead, call it an epiphany.
