If you’re gonna be a writer, you’re gonna face rejection. Shit loads of it. Seriously. Agents, publishers, e-zines, they’re all going to reject you. You’ll feel like an acne-riddled, ninety-pound, knock-kneed dweeb with a cowlick and Mr. Whipple glasses wandering through some hellish sock-hop full of nothing but out-of-your-league hot chicks and football players. You’ll spot some girl clear across the gym, one that seems to be by herself, maybe just a shade less hot than the rest, and you’ll gird up your loins to make a play and take a single step in her direction, and her automatic social position protection detector will kick on, and she’ll look at you from forty paces and laugh. And then you’ll see she was alone for just a second because her boyfriend, some six-foot-four, heavily muscled Adonis, had just stepped out to take a leak, and he’ll catch you right in the middle of the gym floor, give you the Atomic Wedgie, and then stuff you upside-down in the garbage can, and your Mr. Whipple glasses will break, and you’ll have to sneak down to the locker room and get some of that white tape that real men use to wrap their ankles before earning glory on the gridiron, and you’ll tear off a chunk of that to stick the temple back on your glasses, and you’ll drive home in your primer-and-dents AMC Gremlin and go to pet your dog because dogs are faithful, you can always count on your dog, and even the dog will ignore you because he’s too busy licking his own asshole.
It’s gonna be like that. Except when it’s worse. Because this last one felt a little like a sucker punch to the junk.
See, she didn’t laugh at me. She smiled. We talked. We danced. And the music was sweet and the night was alive with promise and when the fast song was over and the lights went down and the band started in on Stairway to Heaven, she let me put my arms around her, and she didn’t even pull away when it got to the fast part, and when she said she had to go to the ladies room, it wasn’t a dodge to let me down easy, she actually came back and she stayed with me through the whole evening, and I walked her to her car. And I asked if she would be my girl.
And she said no.
See this one? It was maybe the longest no in the history of publishing. Some encouraging words a year and a half ago. Then a couple months of fence sitting. Then a no, but they swore it was a near miss, just this one subplot they didn’t like and sure, they’d love to see a rewrite. So I rewrote. And then months of nothing. And then some more encouraging words. And then some really encouraging words. And then we’re having some other people here take a look at this. And then the last, final, cruel no.
Fuck it. This is no game for pussies, I knew that going in. I can take a punch. So consider this my last whine on the matter. Spit out the blood, pack the nose, and suck in what air I can, because they’re getting ready to ring the bell and I’m going back out for more.
And yeah, I mixing my metaphors. I started out with the awkward teenage dating thing, and now I’m in the ring. Because this wallflower shit is over. I’m taking it to the motherfuckers this time. They wanna say no, they can say it from their goddamn backs, on the canvas, spitting out their own blood. Because I am going to put their lights out.
Dang.
Feck. Sorry to hear that. For whatever it’s worth, I’m in your corner. Keep swinging.
Damn, man. Fuck them up.
You speak the truth. The horrid, soul-crushing truth. But so long as you keep getting up off the mat, ain’t a person alive who can stop you…
Don’t quit now, it’s all worth it in the end. You got the diggs pop.
Hoist the red banner. Let the trumpets blare the degüello. Holler shit and slap it sideways.
Go get ’em dude – we’ll be in your corner with the razor blade if you need it!
[…] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Chris F. Holm. Chris F. Holm said: RT @dboshea Love hurts. Writing is worse. http://tinyurl.com/47cbetj […]
It’ll happen. Sucks now, but ice the balls and get back in there. Put the bucket on your head, take this machete, and keep swinging.
You’ve got a winner, and you’ve got the signs of a winner (flirting with publication).
Being an author is about perseverance. Definitely about taking not one punch, not two, but a whole goddamn Cherokee gauntlet of beaings.
— c.
That really sucks, but your post was some truly inspirational shit! Go see “The Fighter” It’s no “Rocky”, but it is one hell of a movie. Don’t forget to bite the ear off, and eat it.
Get knocked seven down times, get up eight. You got the talent, Sunshine, it’s only a matter of time…
Velvet glove, iron fist.
Thanks all. And yeah, I’m still in there swinging. Just another lesson, you think you’ve got this rejection thing sussed, and they figure out a whole new way to put the boot in. Reminds me of when I was in high school and i stepped on a needle, and a part of it got broke off and wedged between a couple bones in my foot. This Scottish Doctor we knew thought he’d be able to reach in with a forceps and pull it out right in his office, no pain shot or nothing. He looked up at me and said in his charming Scottish voice “You know how they say it’s going to sting a little?” I said yeah. He said, “Well it’s not. It’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch, so hold on.”
Good advice for life in general.
Well, that just sucks. Rejection always sucks, but I know how one can get under your guard.
From what little I know of you from blogs, stories and whatnot, you can throw a punch and you damn well can take a punch, even to the jewels. You’ll still be standing at the end, arms in the air, tired, stronger, undefeated, victorious.
I feel you. Had a similar experience, a well-respected, small publisher (the name of which is not mentioned in this house) strung me along for to two years before sending me a one sentence rejection that was grammatically incorrect.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
I’ve read enough of you to know you’re good, you’re tough, and every dog gtes tired of licking its own asshole eventually and has to smell someone else’s. That will be your day. (That sounded a lot better in my head than it looks on the screen. So it goes.)
Yeah, it gets discouraging, but if anybody’s going to make it my money’s on you. Go kick some ass.
I owe you an apology for telling you to Sn00ki up last night.
As for the rejection…don’t be discouraged. You’re better than they are…we all know it! Just a matter of time before you make it big and forget about all of us. You’ll be entering the world of twitter eliteness before you know it!
Plus…you’ve always got your voice.
What can I say that hasn’t been said? Other than empathy.
1. I like that Scottish doctor. He should be a therapist.
2. The pain of being close sucks–I know, I lived there for a decade–but it also means you’re close. The semi-finalist showing in a local contest, the rejection from the MFA program (MN bounced me in ’01, accepted me in ’02 although not in fiction), the enthusiasm from the agent followed by the “close but no cigar letters.” Publishers only do this to people they like.
The Scottish doctor? I ended up kicking him in the nose. They had to put me under to get the sucker out.
If I were a publisher, I would not want to piss off someone who spends a lot of his time thinking about how people could come to all kinds of untimely demises.
Wait a minute. What do you spend your time thinking about? You mean that’s just me?
I am the Queen of Perseverance, let me tell you. Time and time again in my life, I’ve had to start over, try again, fight back, fight for, and most times, for years and with a high tolerance of pain and the patience of a saint.
I was training to be a writer, I guess.
Following my cancer diagnosis & surgery, one of my bosses wrote in a card that I faced adversity with grace. One of the greatest compliments I ever received, I thought.
My fight has only just begun ~ it’s been simmering for quite some time, and it’s been a long road with many bumps along the way. But I will never give up ~ and I know you never will, either.
The good news is that you’re that much closer to the one who will say “yes.” He or she is out there. It’s just a matter of time. But I know how it stings, honest I do.
Hang in there, Dan, and lace up those boxing gloves. You have many friends out here who know your pain. We’re placing our bets on you 🙂
Time to get the chainsaw out. Good luck, comrades.
W
Zephyr — a superhero webcomic in prose
http://wereviking.wordpress.com