In the late 1990s, I wrote a short story—my first ever—and submitted it to The New Yorker. It was a really amazing piece of fiction, one that reflected dozens of minutes of toil and revision. I do not remember the plot (which suggests there was none) except for one detail: the female character sits on a therapist’s couch, and, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, floats into the air and–poof!–vanishes.
I am certain this 7,000-word work of art was roughly 7,000 words too long.
More than fifteen years later, I see how many things were wrong with that experience. First, the piece was a piece of garbage. I did not know how to write a story, and I had no one guiding me through the process. I should have sought advice from someone, if not another writer, than at least a friendly barista or the wine guy with the radio voice at the Safeway where I buy cheap Riesling.
Wrong thing #2: I had the gall to submit to The New Yorker. Sure, I had read The New Yorker, usually while waiting for my dental appointments, usually looking at the pretty cover or the cartoons because the stories were, well, a little uppity in my opinion. Perhaps I thought that the inclusion of my story would endear me to the other works of fiction. But certainly, even if my story had been an actual work of art, I was not familiar enough with the publication to know whether it would be a good fit.
These days I am a better writer with a better understanding of story structure, and yes, I carry around suitcases of humility. I have given up trying to like The New Yorker’s fiction and instead peruse People while waiting for my dental checkups. And when I submit an essay or a story, a grant proposal or retreat application, I do so in a much smarter way.
In 2015, I (someone who lives with bipolar disorder 2) got involved in an organization with this goal: reduce the stigma of mental illness by sharing our stories and serving as a resource to others with mental health conditions. With this in mind, I wrote an essay about mental illness in a marriage. Once again I aimed high, and after much revision based on my critique partners’ feedback, I sent the essay to The New York Times. Seven weeks later I received a form letter rejection from the editor: Dear Sarah Callender . . .
A form letter rejection feels crummy. And submitting smartly doesn’t eliminate the possibility of rejection.
After receiving the form letter rejection, I threw a fifteen-minute pity party, then told my puppy I loved him about fifty times. He wagged and replied fifty-one times that he loved me back, and I started researching other places where I could send the piece. After all, it’s the first rejection that’s the hardest. And the second and the third and the fiftieth, and honestly if one more well-intentioned, kindhearted person tells me how many rejections Rowling had before Harry Potter was acquired, I might shriek. She had her manuscript rejected twelve times. Twelve. Big whoop.
But rejection forces me to consider and reconsider just how badly I want to be an author. It tests my mettle and keeps me improving my craft. It reminds me of the importance of knightly (and daily) chain mail. Although this mental illness essay experience had the same result as the vanishing-burrito fiasco, I had gone about writing and submitting it in a very different way. And I felt good about that.
I’d love to share what I have learned about submitting essays, op-eds, short fiction and grant applications.
- Do it. We can’t control how our piece will be received, but we can ensure it IS received. Set a goal. For example: I will submit Story X to eight different publications by June 2016. This is a far better goal than Get published in The New Yorker. You can control submissions; you cannot control how an editor perceives your submission.
- Before you submit, familiarize yourself with the publication. Fifteen years ago, I didn’t do that because I was green and foolish. But I do it now, yesiree. Ironically, when we don’t research a publication before submitting, we waste a load of time.
- Be prepared to pay money. Or not. There are oodles of contests and publications to which you might send your work, but many require a fee. Have a budget before you start submitting willy-nilly. My budget is currently zero.
- Respect and adhere to the publication’s guidelines. Poke around to find the editors’ desired subject matter and word count along with their preferred formatting and submission method. If they ask for a brief cover letter, provide one that’s polished and concise. If they ask that you not follow up, then don’t follow up. And if you are sending an essay or story to multiple places and someone grabs it, be sure to notify the other publications. No editor likes to fall in love with a piece that’s already been picked up by someone else.
- Along those lines, carefully track your submissions. I always think I will remember what I send out and when and to whom. I never do. Put your activity into a spreadsheet with headings like: Title/Project, Submission Date, Response Time, OK to Follow Up?, Yay or Nay, Editor’s Feedback. Even if you receive only “no thank you” responses, your spreadsheet will illustrate your bravery.
- When you do receive a rejection, resist the urge to send the editor a nasty note about how dimwitted and shortsighted he is, about how he will come to rue the day he rejected you. Rather, send a brief thank you for his time and consideration. It’s too small a world to burn bridges.
- Do not give up. Keep honing your craft. Keep putting yourself in situations where you are taking risks, even when it means you may be rejected. Know that with every rejection, you increase your chances of beating Ms. Rowling in the Rejection Olympics, which I’m telling you, is not hard to do.
Your turn! What are some silver linings you have found as you submit your work? What has gotten you through the low points? Would you be willing to share ideas about where emerging writers might submit work? Do you have any cringe-worthy submission stories? Does this chain mail make me look fat? Thanks for reading and sharing, dear WUers.
Photo compliments of flickr’s Vicki Burton.
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About Sarah Callender
Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her husband, son and daughter. A crummy house-cleaner and terrible at responding to emails in a timely fashion, Sarah chooses instead to focus on her fondness for chocolate and Abe Lincoln. She is working on her third novel while her fab agent pitches the first two to publishers.
First, dear Sarah, I wish to thank you for granting me the boon of the finest helm in the realm. Its protective quality is beyond compare! Perhaps some might think it too restrictive of one’s vision. But I am well practiced and unafraid of charging forth with little to no foresight!
Next, I’ll admit to doing the same as you did with the burrito. After the first time I submitted my first novel (way too early) and was roundly auto-rejected, I read somewhere that I needed a publication track record, and that I should submit short stories. Since I had not a clue as to how to revise my work, this seemed like a perfect way to spend my writing time (even having never written a single short story). So picked out a fantasy periodical (not totally randomly, but close), and checked out their submission guidelines (without reading a single issue). They allowed stories up to 8,000 words, so I made mine 7,999. Perfect, right?
I received what seemed to be an actual typed email from the submissions editor rejecting it. I got it while my wife and I were vacationing in Mexico, which somehow made it feel worse when it should’ve made it feel better. It’s difficult to mope in sunny Puerto Vallarta, but I managed it pretty well. Until my wife pressed me. I told her I was bummed because they said my work wasn’t a good fit, and that seemed like it meant it wasn’t a fit anywhere in the fantasy genre (I was already self-conscious about this not fitting in thing).
A couple days later by the pool, in response to my soft sniveling sounds, my wife asked, “Well, does it?” She meant did the story actually fit in with the others in the mag. I’d attempted to read a few issues by then – even packed one for the trip. I was forced to admit the answer was: not in the slightest. I could hardly get through most of them. Their stories leaned to horror and had sort of an old “Weird Tales” vibe that just was not me. My wife laid back on her chaise, sipped her mojito, and said, “Then you should be relieved.” She was right, of course. (And I did mostly enjoy the rest of the trip.)
So that was five years ago, and the story never was pubbed. But it became the foundation of my current work in progress, which I’m feeling pretty darn good about. I may even don my armor and submit in the not-too-distant future.
Lastly, I want you to know that I admire your bravery and appreciate your inspiration. You’re the best shield-mate a writer could ask for. Onward!
Oh, dear shield-mate! First of all, your wife is a wise and loving woman. Nice work on marrying her . . . and she obviously chose wisely too.
I totally agree that sometimes there is protection in a rejection. You would not want your fiction to be pubbed in a vaguely weird magazine because you are not vaguely weird. It’s good to have our work published in places that reflect who we are. And the fact that you see how this piece became the foundation of your novels? Fabulous.
I do find there is some chafing that takes place with the armor, and yes, as you mentioned the helmet does impact frontal and peripheral vision. But it does protect, just as WU compassion and community protects. I have yet to come across chafing here at WU.
Thanks for your faithful knighthood, dear Vaughn. And give your wife a hug.
:)
Oh, Sarah, I always adore your posts. Please tell me we’ll finally meet at UnCon?
Your turn! What are some silver linings you have found as you submit your work? MAN, THERE’S SUPPOSED TO BE SILVER LININGS? SHIT.
What has gotten you through the low points? WINE. CHOCOLATE. A SWIFT BLOW TO THE HEAD.
Would you be willing to share ideas about where emerging writers might submit work? LOCAL PAPERS AND SUCH. IT’S MUCH HARDER TO REJECT SOMEONE WHEN THEY’RE STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU WITH A SMILE THE SIZE OF A BANANA.
Do you have any cringe-worthy submission stories? HOW MUCH TIME HAVE YOU GOT? I ONCE RECEIVED A REJECTION LETTER FROM AN ABSOLUTE STRANGER, A PERSON AND COMPANY I HAD NEVER SUBMITTED TO. THAT HURTS.
Does this chain mail make me look fat? NEVER!
Thanks for reading and sharing, dear WUers. THANK YOU, DEAR SARAH.
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
I laughed out loud at the image of you with a banana-sized smile. You are right to go big. A plantain just doesn’t cut it.
And good grief! Getting a rejection from a place to which you had submitted? Something similar happened to my son when he was cut from soccer tryouts and he had never tried out. There’s enough rejection in the world. We don’t need to get unsolicited rejection.
Thank you for brightening our morning here with your banana (I can say that to you because you are not a man).
Bananaly,
Sarah
For some reason, my inner narrator pronounced that “Ban-anal-y.”
Yeah, Mike. Emphasis is everything. I’m sure your emPHAsis reflects nothing about your boy brain.
(This made me laugh by the way. Thank you.)
Adorably,
Sarah
Sarah, I , too, had the gall to submit to the New Yorker. I sent them poems. One a month for several months, in fact. I still have the rejection letters in a file somewhere. And I have a similar story to Vaughn’s as well. I started sending my sh—y first draft (SFD?) around to agents until I got a letter from one of them advising me to stop doing it immediately. She further advised me to find and editor and learn my craft. My stomach hurt for a month. Years later I looked back on this and saw that she’d done me a great service by taking the time to send me a personal response. I took her advice, and since then I’ve had different kinds of rejections; form letters, silences, and occasionally, a note saying “we like the writing, but…” I figure I’m going in the right direction, but I still need the chain mail. I’d love it in a dress, though. Something I could wear with boots. On a last note, I’m honored to be in the company of all you brave and noble warriors. Thanks for a wonderful post.
Dear Susan,
I thank you for this comment . . . it is SO hard to get rejected, whether it’s by a romantic interest or an agent. Even harder when he or she said, “Knock it off and stop following me!”
But there is true beauty in what you have realized through the “knock it off” you received from that agent. Press on, friend! And thank you for your The New Yorker empathy. I was literally cringing as I was writing those details for this blog post . . . how nice to see that others have had some similar moments.
Empathy rocks. Thank you!
sarah
Wonderful post, Sarah. Twelve rejections for Harry Potter before it was published? Gee, that sounds like the speed lane to me. Over the years, I’ve had too many rejections to count. I used to collect all my short story rejections and read them over sometimes. Looking at the big picture hit me hard one day, and I ceremoniously burned the rejections and the stories. Then I buried the ashes. I was just so angry. After “the burial” I began again, wrote new stories and several were published in small magazines that nobody heard of. Minor victories. Sarah, your point No. 7 is a good one: Keep honing your craft and don’t give up. I agree with Vaughn, “Onward.”
Yes indeed, Paula. The Rejection Pyre is a powerful thing. It’s interesting too. When we destroy and remove all evidence of others’ “no thank you,” we can press on and keep at it. When I was dating a guy in med school, he broke up with me, and I took out scissors and cut the scrubs he had given me (as PJs) in strips. Satisfying. I would have burned them, but I don’t think scrubs burst into flames like paper does.
I know some writers like to use their rejections as wallpaper, and I do see the power of that too . . . inspiration maybe . . . as in, I see you and I will conquer you.
Thank you for sharing and weighing in, faithful Paula!
When it comes to submitting short stories, essays, and poems, I go through waves of optimism and despair. I submit to a dozen places at once, feel quite happy with myself, then start getting the “no thanks” responses. I do read the pubs before submitting, so I believe I’m barking up the right trees, but few pieces have stuck. The ones that have–a finalist in a short story contest put on by the Saturday Evening Post, a poem that made it into the East Lansing Poetry Attack–are like the piece of cheese that Emily Blunt’s character in The Devil Wears Prada eats when she feels like she’s going to faint. It’s just enough sustenance to take those next steps. I remind myself that I’m playing the long game here. And I get back to work.
I loved this, Erin. Most of all, I loved your point about playing the long game. That is brilliant and 100% true. Writers looking for the quick win (probably like I was back in the 90s) either won’t make it or will have to adjust expectations and hunker down.
Thank you also for mentioning the waves of optimism and despair. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I can feel so confident one moment, and the next I have to fight the desire to look for a job as a mail carrier or a brain surgeon or return to my teaching job. It’s certainly a roller coaster.
Thank you for sharing, Erin!
:)
Dear Sarah, Ah yes, I too am a member of the “Sent a Short Story to the New Yorker” club. I wrote short stories while raising my children and had the fiction editors at both Redbook and McCalls interested–first name basis stuff. But I never sold a story, and then went on to writing novels so I could keep my desk drawers warm and cozy with piles of paper. When people say the publishing world has changed, it’s understated. The internet has changed everything and knowing how to submit and when and where no longer means buying a copy of Writer’s Market. Not to mention the hundreds of blogs (not this one) that now have all the answers as to how to craft a story and sell it. Rules, rules, rules. If I sound a bit put-off, it’s just that my head is spinning with the contradictions a writer can encounter. I loved your take on similar experiences and wish you the best. Writing is a passion in my life. So I try to separate the wheat from the chaff and soldier on–armored with Query Tracker, positive thoughts and lots of time with my muse who makes me sit at the keyboard and WRITE.
Oh yes. It’s so nice to know I have company in the “I submitted to the New Yorker club” but if you were getting good attention from Redbook and McCalls, you were certainly not green and foolish like I was.
It really is a process.
I agree about the “formulas” to writing stories–what a sham. There are no rules (beyond the need for desire and conflict in a story) and that’s the beauty of fiction.
Don’t you feel so lucky to have a passion? So many people don’t. We are fortunate for sure. And so we press on . . .
Thanks so much, Beth, for contributing these great words.
Sarah, great tips. I am a magazine evangelist and if you write for kids, you can break in with the crème de la crème of all magazines, Highlights, with crafts and well-researched and entertaining nonfiction. They are wonderful to work with.
I was convinced I’d written the best picture book so sent in not just the text about my toddler son and cat, but also a dummy with a note about using my photos as a guide for the illustrator if they didn’t like my pictures. I sent it out to 6 publishers that I thought were a good fit and got back six personal rejections about what a cute kid I had. I’m glad they didn’t publish it, but those dummies are a great keepsake.
Dear Vijaya,
Thank you for the great ideas about children’s magazines! What a brilliant idea to return to the classics I loved as a kid. Highlights brings back all sorts of fun memories. :)
I love that your manuscript garnered personal rejections. You must have a good story AND a cute kiddo. And yes, so great that you have the evidence of your first work of art. That’s a keepsake for sure. Maybe JK Rowling would endorse it!
Happy writing, faithful commenter.
:)
I was turned off on The New Yorker by a snobby creative writing professor. He had his head up his ass about so many things from my POV, mostly disparaging Stephen King as a hack (back then every snooty literary intellectual hated Stephen King). My professor also had a talent for making the class room minutes drag as he went on and on about the virtues of symbolism. He even once went so far as to misjudge my attempt at a historical gothic romance, deeming it a”bodice ripper”. And to add insult to injury the man actually had the nerve to declare this brilliant work a rip off of Barbara Cartland, a penny dreadful writer that my mum read. He just could not see, because as I noted before, his head was stuck way up his posterior, that in reality, I’d written a masterful, melodramatic, ode to Poe.
Fast forward some years (oh who’s counting how many) and one rainy evening I pull that masterpiece out of a pile of ancient writings and reread it. Perhaps that professor was not so out of line with his critique.
Maybe it’s time I go back and try to read The New Yorker. My sister loves it, but then again, she’s an English professor with a penchant for Joyce.
Thanks for this post, Sarah. My take away is that as writers we must a) know thyself and b) know thy venue before we submit.
What a fabulous comment, Bernadette. Thank you! You know what’s interesting? The way someone delivers feedback makes all the difference. That professor may have been right or he may have been wrong (or right AND wrong) but as a writing teacher, I’d say his words could have been less arrogant.
My mother would say that that professor is probably insecure and doesn’t feel very good about himself.
And good on you for pressing on! Sometimes tough feedback is debilitating; other times it adds fuel to our fire. Looks like it did the latter for you.
Thank you, thank you!
Ahh Sarah, how timely: before I read your post this morning, I had two form-letter rejections from agents for an old novel (one even addressed, sentimentally, to “Dear Author”). Having matured from the early days when I’d pitch a tent filled with howling dogs outside an agent’s hallway, nowadays I just calmly wonder, “What would President Trump do?” and go about my day of shaping biscuits.
I too have submitted to the New Yorker (and the NY Times, and Harper’s and Atlantic and Esquire and a whole lotta others) and received feathers in reply, but honestly, I have barely a reaction at all anymore (and not because of the brandy).
The reason that’s all OK is part of what you’re saying: keep honing your skills, pay attention and keep sending stuff out. No New Yorker kisses my ring, but so far this year I have assignments—some already published—from a national magazine, a national newspaper, a major annual writing guide, a couple of nice regional magazines and an in-flight mag. And I have a lot of other pitches out, which is key to the game.
Sadly, none of the acceptances are for fiction, the confirmation of which would tingle my spine ten times the thrill of the nonfiction stuff, but I’ll keep writing and sending out fiction too—and always try to make it that much better—because like everyone here, that’s what we do.
As for cringe-worthy submissions, I waded through my two-pound sheaf of rejection letters, and one jumped out: I’d attended what I thought was an avant-garde San Francisco art gallery’s tattoo-artist exhibition years back, but was treated to all sorts of public S&M gifts, including seeing a game fellow drive nails through his scrotal sac onstage—to applause. I wrote an article about that refreshing evening and an editor mailed me back saying “I can’t handle any more articles on body piercing, pro or con.” I’m with you, sister.
Dear Author,
Such a wise and witty comment (no surprise).
WWDTD? Didn’t you hear that speech the other day where he said he has NEVER been rejected by a publisher and he has NEVER failed at anything and if anyone dares even think about rejecting his memoir or his article on scrotal issues, he will throw him over the wall (that Mexico has funded)?
I will stop there.
But Dear Author: Thank you for making the point about always having your work in circulation. I do think it helps reduce the stress and the buildup while we are waiting to hear. Waiting is a terrible emotion. Having pitches and pieces out for consideration is kind of like back in the day when women gave birth to dozens of kids because so many kids didn’t make it. IS it kind of like that? I’m not sure.
I will stop there.
As for scrotal sacs, Dear Author, that is an awesome rejection. If you added photos to your submission, all the better. Gee whiz, I don’t even have a scrotal sac, and it makes me hurt just thinking about it!
Thank you, dear Tom, for the gifts you share with WU.
sarah
Yep, there’s no gift like a nailed scrotal sac. To a cannibal, I suppose. [Dear Author’s note: sac jokes now terminated.] Sarah, thanks back at you—all your posts are welcome gifts, and nicely wrapped at that.
Just trolling the comments…don’t mind me…had to interrupt this little tete-a-tete to split a gut. The witty banter was priceless. Tom, your first paragraph had me rolling. Rolling. WWDTD…rolling biscuits…I have to remember those.
And Sarah, are you ever NOT adorable? Your “Dear Author” reply was perfect.
As for pierced scrotii — sorry, that’s not my bag. ;)
My delight in this conversation reflects that I am, in fact, a 14-year-old boy.
Great thoughts Sarah.
I think regarding paying to submit, I would say it’s never worth it unless you’re paying out of money you’ve already received for writing another piece. I make that caveat because the whole point of professionally writing for money is writing… for money. I’m not saying that’s our only motivation, but I am saying if making money from your writing is a goal, by definition we shouldn’t ever pay to submit. The exception, of course, is looking at the whole thing like a business: spend money to make money. Of course, you need a positive cash-flow to begin with in order to justify such an investment in something like a contest and generally if you haven’t made money on your work yet, your money would be better spent saving up for an editor or a book on the craft. Eventually it would make business sense to invest in competitions, but I would say that would only come after you’ve gotten to the point where it’s a minuscule part of the budget.
Which I think you’ve implied with “currently my budget is zero,” but I wanted to flesh it out.
As a side note: I think your piece could have made it into the New Yorker from a strict genre point — I’ve read them for quite some time and they publish fantasy and scifi and other things, but they need a heavy literary bend and the editor will likely lop off the last 150 words of whatever you wrote to give it this awkward, poignancy-implied ending. I say that because they have a habit of publishing one (1) unsolicited submission every year. And sometimes that submission comes from a total noob.
It could happen.
Not that you want that, but still… I think it emphasizes your overall point.
Great thoughts, thanks!
Sir Lancelot,
Thank you for the fleshing out and for your other great words and thoughts. Yes that’s exactly what I meant when I said my budget is zero. A while back, I would pay to submit pieces, but I learned that it wasn’t a good use of money. I think it’s better to use money for food and heat than for the chance at publication.
But there was one contest where I paid an entry fee and the fiction piece did place in the top three . . . so maybe that one was worthwhile. The reality? Most of us aren’t loaded. It’s important to know that we can still get our work out there even if we don’t pay money to do so.
I laughed at the idea of my story being anything other than total poop. But it is good to know that the work of noobs is not always rejected. I really should pick up a few issues of TNY, read them, and see what happens. Perhaps my tastes have matured. My thirteen-year-old son, however, tells me I have the humor of a fourteen-year-old boy. I can’t argue with that. Maybe I’ll grow up in 2017 and start subscribing to TNY.
OK! Get back to work, my new friend, and I’ll do the same. Thank you for expanding on what I only briefly mentioned–so helpful to us all!
:)
I think there can be a place for contests in your overall career strategy. Back when I was trying to find a publisher for my memoir, I submitted some excerpts to contests (I had a limited budget, but it was more than zero). Yes, the ms has to stand or fall on its own, but it never hurts to have it come with a few blue ribbon prizes attached. I also thought the benefit of having some memoir-writing credentials to put in my query and proposal were worth the cost of the contests. I guess I should ask my publisher if he even noticed them ;-)
Oh, wow. The picture is worth the price of admission. And I really needed this reminder to KEEP. SENDING. IT. OUT.
Hi Bethany! Thanks for sharing your comment. And do check out Tom Bentley’s wise words in a prior comment. It is good to cast a wide net when submitting work. And, I have writer friends (very successful, published ones) who always have an essay or a bit of fiction out. It’s really cool to have pieces out on circulation.
Keep at it, girl! Keep at it! (I was talking to both of us.)
:)
It doesn’t qualify as a rejection, but at my first conference I submitted the first five pages of my masterpiece and my very first novel for a critique session with a real live publisher. The real live publisher turned out to be a young lady who started out with, “I have no idea what this is about.” I’m telling you, the girl had probably graduated from publishing college the day before ripping apart my entry. I slunk out, feeling hopeless. But I am happy to report that I took a look at her notes and realized she was right. In my quest to be the next Ernest Hemingway I forgot to be Ron Estrada. I needed to write my story and learn how to write it better. It was a humbling experience and one every writer needs.
I love this, Ron. it’s one thing to receive scathing feedback from a wise old editor. Quite another to receive it from a whippersnapper who, age-wise, could be my daughter.
I think it’s so great you saved it and can see the ways she was, well, right about the piece. That’s how we grow. I’m always suspect of those who receive feedback and ignore it. Yes, some should be ignored, but we are wasting opportunities for growth when we don’t recognize constructive criticism. I think that arrogant writers don’t go very far. :(
Happy day to you, Ron.
Hey, Sarah,
I finally made it down here to the basement…where all the bodies are. Delightful conversations happening on the floors above. I had to stop and visit a few of them.
First, may I say how stunning you are in your chain mail. Absolutely breathtaking…it sparkles like sequins…and, if anything, you’re too thin.
Second, of course I’ve had a few rejections. Short story contests and online submissions with nothing published, yet. Most were early in my writing career (yes, I’m calling it a career…sort of breathes a little life into it), but now I’m focused on my novel. But I keep plugging away. I’m currently in another contest — a few rounds that span the course of six months. It began with 2100 writers, and the results from the first round will be announced in a week. We’ll see.
So…to recap…currently working on a novel…still submitting shorts here and there…waiting to hear results from round one with bated ears.
As usual, your article was both a joy and inspiration to read. Yes, you are my people…so far, I’ve only read TNY for the cartoons and covers, too.
Thanks!
Fingers crossed for the contest. Shoot me a note and let me know how it goes?
A friend told me a few years back that for those of us who have depression, it can take tremendous courage to get out of bed each day. Yes. Very true. To be a submitting writer with depression? That also requires great courage.
Bravo, brave friend. Keep on hoping and toiling and getting out of bed. And I’ll do the same. :)
I had a rejection just this very day. Not a form rejection, but a “declined” on Submittable. Those kinds of rejections help me feel even more gratitude for the high-calibre rejections I’ve been receiving in the last 18 months. “Please send us more of your work” feels like the highest of high rejection-praise when you’re in a desert that is all rejections and not one damn acceptance in 1.5 years. I never would have thought I’d have the stamina to keep going on such a tiny oily rag. I think it’s tenacity but at times it feels like lunacy.
Hi Susan,
Yes! I do know what you mean . . . when I tell my non-writing friends about the “really nice” rejections my agent and I have been receiving from editors, these friends think I am kidding. But as you know, there is a huge difference between form letter and a personal rejection. The personal ones mean we are getting closer!
Keep going, lady! I will too.
:)
I started out writing both novels and short stories, and though my novels didn’t get anywhere, I’ve started seeing some traction on my stories and essays. In fact after regularly writing short stories for the last two years I find I’m addicted to the short form! I am a prolific submitter and though I have a few acceptances in my kitty, I have raked in upwards of 200 rejections! I have a few cringe-worthy submission stories, such as sending completely wrong submissions to a couple of prominent lit mags, and getting polite notes from them that I’d sent it wrong in the first place but they’d look at it anyway :)
I love this, Gargi. Thanks so much for sharing. Your rejection pile (like mine) reflects tenacity and hope. I love that. Both are so essential in a writer’s tool box.
I have always wanted to write short fiction, but when I try, I see that I have no idea how to get everything done in so few words. I have great admiration for those writers who can. Keep going. You clearly write with joy. :)
If it’s any consolation to those adding their short stories to the New Yorker slush pile, rumor has it the previous fiction editor never pulled one story from the thousands of stories he received over his eight years as editor. He always went with material sent from lit agents or Big Name writers. The current fiction editor, Deborah Treisman, seems to have a better track record, and they do hire interns to read everything that comes to them. But they get hundreds of short stories a day!
And in defense of New Yorker short stories, I love them. But their interest is in so-called “literary fiction,” which should be treated as a specific genre. As with any publication, you should know what it is they’re looking for before submitting. Why would you send to them if you didn’t like their work!? That would be like sending a scifi piece to a journal for contemporary romance, and then complaining they sent you a form letter. Always, always! read the journal or magazine before submitting.