Perhaps the biggest challenge of being a writer—apart from the laughably low pay and the staggering loneliness and the pressure to choose all the right words to fill all the blank pages—is dealing with rejection.
Every writer, whether it’s a hugely popular author or an author more like me, has to cope with some form of rejection in their career. It may be a literary agent rejecting their query, a publisher rejecting their manuscript, or a pawnbroker rejecting their typewriter. Point is, rejection in the writing and publishing world is universal. I have a couple of fully stuffed filing cabinets to prove it, though I can’t open either of them due to all the damage they’ve sustained from being punched and kicked.
That all said, rejection needn’t be so painful. While I acknowledge it’s hard not letting a “NO” stop your flow, I assure you there are ways to lessen the sting of literary rejection—some that don’t even require prescription pharmaceuticals or more illicit drugs or voluntary euthanasia.
Below are just a few.
(Note: While this piece is intended for writers, nearly all of the tactics can be applied to non-writers and OTHERtypes of sane people looking to cope with rejection.)
5) Befriend only bad writers. Whoever wrote “misery loves company” was a genius and thus not the kind of writer you should be friends with. No, you want to surround yourself with hacks—writers who are kind and generous but who lack any real talent. That way you’ll be too busy hearing about all their rejections to have time to dwell on and mope too much about your own. And isn’t feeling slightly superior to others really what friendship’s all about?
4) Marry an optimist. If you’re a writer who’s been at it a while but has yet to make a living from writing (in other words, 99.974% of all writers), chances are high you’re not an optimist. Years of rejection have a way of breeding new strains of pessimism. Therefore it’s wise to choose as your life partner someone who’ll drown you in smiles and encouragement and cheerleading chants so you don’t drown yourself in a lake after receiving your next “NO” from an agent or publisher or pawnbroker.
3) Develop and cultivate delusions of grandeur.Just because you aren’t an optimist doesn’t mean you can’t be delusional. Where optimism is a positive state of mind that requires a lot of effort, delusions of grandeur are positive signs of mental illness and thus very achievable for most writers. If you’re lucky, your delusions will enable you to convince yourself that you’ve been getting rejected because you’re actually too talented. I have a friend who’s fortunate enough to be crazy enough to believe agents and publishers reject him out of their fear he’s going to be too huge an author for them to handle. He’s certain they’d rather pass on his books than go through the inevitable grief and heartbreak of losing him to a more prestigious entity. You’ve never seen such a confident unpublished author! It’s beautiful.
2) Be placed into a medically induced coma.Admittedly this is sort of an outlandish approach, but then so is writing novels for money or enjoyment. The good news is being placed into a medically induced coma is a surefire way to not only lessen the sting of rejection but also lose weight while getting time off from your loathsome day job. Think of it as going on a peaceful yoga retreat without the worst part—the yoga.
1) Reject rejection. This is perhaps the most powerful way to deal with rejection, and thus the most dangerous, and thus the most fun. It’s like delusions of grandeur’s much tougher cousin, as it’s a lot more active and daring than merely losing your mind. Rejecting rejection requires a writer to stare straight into the eye of each “Thank you but no” email they receive and, without flinching or punching a filing cabinet, say, “Uh uh—thank YOU but no” or “Sorry but I cannot accept your lack of acceptance.” Or something even more badass, if that’s even possible.
What are some of YOUR tips for lessening the sting of rejection? (Don’t feel bad if I don’t accept them.)
Long before I became a novelist, I used to imagine being one. I thought about how cool it must be to write all day and roam the night. I thought about the freedom of having no boss, nobody telling you what to do on the page or off it. Just infinite creativity, full expression, pure human experience.
So, yeah, I used to daydream about life—particularly nightlife—as a fiction writer.
And then sh*t got real.
Here’s how I imagined a typical night in a novelist’s life before I started writing long fiction fifteen years ago:
You sidle up to the bar and nod at Charlie. You needn’t utter a word—Charlie knows your drink. Has known it for years. Knew it before your first novel changed the landscape. Knew it before you declined the National Book Award because you wanted to stay hungry. Knew it before the signed photo of you hanging on the wall behind the bar was hung on the wall behind the bar.
Bourbon, neat.
The beautiful woman you’ve pretended not to notice sitting on the barstool to your left, babysitting a martini, glances at you, then at the photo, then at you again. “Hey, isn’t that you up there?” she asks, pointing at your framed black-and-white smugness.
You shake your head. “It was.”
The woman knits her brow, then turns her attention back to her martini.
Charlie hands you a lowball filled too high. You hand him a twenty—you try to, anyway. He shakes his head and says it’s on the house. You shake your head and say he’s an enabler, then drop the twenty into the tip jar.
Charlie tells you he just finished your latest book. Says it’s your best one yet. You tell him you didn’t tip him to lie to you. He laughs, then asks what you’re working on now.
“Just this bourbon,” you say.
The martini woman scoffs. “You know, being so clever all the time actually isn’t.”
You nod and tell her you’re going to borrow that line.
“Be my guest,” she says. “You could use some new lines—I’ve read your last two novels.” She then knocks back her martini, grabs her bag from a hook below the bar, and leaves without another word.
And just like that, you’re smitten. But you’re not going to let falling in love ruin your mood.
The air. It’s thick with booze. Broken hearts. Bad intentions.
It’s going to be a good night.
And here’s how a typical night in a novelist’s life (mine, anyway) ACTUALLY looks:
“What the hell are you doing in there?” your wife shouts from the living room. “You said you were just going to your writing office to grab your phone. Come back here and watch this show with me.”
“Sorry baby, still looking for my phone,” you say as you continue typing ferociously yet as quietly as possible. “Be right there—didn’t realize the commercials were over already.”
Your wife reminds you that Netflix doesn’t show commercials and that you yourself had asked her to pause the show. And that you had promised you wouldn’t sneak off to write tonight.
“I’m not writing,” you say, your fingers tapping as fast as lightning and as light as a feather on the keyboard. You haven’t had a creative spurt like this in weeks. What’s flying onto the screen might be the best thing you’ve written in years.
“Then why do I hear tapping?” your wife shouts from three rooms away.
You stop typing and take a swig from one of the cans of Monster you keep hidden in your writing office and say, “That was just my fingertips drumming on the desk to help me think where I left the darn phone.” You then take a swig from the flask of vodka you keep hidden behind the cans of Monster.
Your wife says don’t worry, she’ll call your phone to help you find it.
“Wait! I think I know where it is now,” you say while an idea for an amazing plot twist for Chapter 16 pops into your head and has you frothing at the mouth, though the frothing may just be from the energy drink. “Yup, here it is—it had slid under the printer.” You take another swig of Monster, and two more swigs of vodka.
“Finally,” your wife says. “Now get back here so we can finish watch—”
“Ohhh nooo,” you call out slowly, stalling to give you time to finish your notes for the killer scene you just thought of. “There are a bunch of text messages from Ted. He says Janet just dumped him and he’s in a really dark place. Says to please call him. Says he needs someone to talk to or he might do something crazy.”
“Oh my god, call him!” your wife cries out. “Poor Ted!”
“Okay, calling him now. Thanks for understanding, baby. So sorry—I promise we’ll finish that episode later tonight.”
You feel awful and you don’t deserve her but more importantly you just bought yourself at least an hour of uninterrupted writing time, fueled by your unstoppable creative spirit and your Monster.
But first you need to tweet something witty about #writerslife and #amwriting. Lucky for you, your wife doesn’t have a Twitter account.
You send out a tweet about how nothing stands between you and your novel, and the tweet already has two likes from hardworking, dedicated writers just like you who are busy browsing Twitter instead of writing. Time to get back to your manuscript. But first, you take another quick peek at your tweet to make sure it doesn’t contain any typos or anything and … SWEET—another like!
Okay, no more screwing around. This novel isn’t going to write itself, and you can’t risk falling out of the zone you’re in right now. You click back to the manuscript and … damn it. You just realized the amazing plot twist you came up with a few minutes ago has a huge hole in it and will never work.
No biggie. You know you’ll come up with an even better twist by the time you get to Chapter 16. In the meantime, you’ll just keep working on Chapter 2, moving the story forward, building tension, increasing the stakes—basically creating a gritty crime thriller that will be impossible for readers to put down. You’ve got this! But first, you check your email.
In your inbox is a message from an agent who a month ago asked to see the manuscript for the novel you finished six months ago but have yet to get published. Before, opening the email, you pray to God this is “the one,” then apologize to God about you being agnostic up until now. You remind God you gave five dollars to a homeless man the other day, then click on the email to open the message. The agent says she’s really glad you gave her a chance to read your manuscript (cool, cool) and says she really enjoyed it (yeah?!) and thinks the book will have no problem finding a publisher (YES!), but that she doesn’t feel she’s the right person to champion it and thus cannot offer you representation at this time.
You shout a string of obscenities, and your wife asks if everything’s okay. “Yes, sorry,” you say. “Just letting Ted know how upset I am about him and Janet splitting up.” Your wife tells you to try to exhibit a more positive vibe for Ted. You say sure thing, then cover your mouth with your mouse pad and scream the rest of the obscenities you know into it.
You take a few deep breaths and start to calm down. You convince yourself there are plenty of agents out there who’d kill to rep you, and that the book in question is your breakout novel. You slap yourself in the face, tell yourself to toughen up, and vow to keep plugging away at the new manuscript no matter what as soon as you check to see how your tweet is doing.
Your tweet has no new likes. Also, you just received another rejection notification via email. And worst of all, your flask is empty. You decide to use all this frustration and dejection as fuel, to have it ignite your soul and elicit from you the most harrowing and gripping set of chapters you’ve ever written. Halfway through the first sentence, you realize you haven’t checked the sales of your existing books since dinner. You check. You haven’t sold any books since last week when your mother bought yet another copy and forced it on a friend.
You start crying a little—partly due to your failures as a writer, and partly due to Ted and Janet breaking up. Then you remember Ted and Janet didn’t actually break up, but this doesn’t cheer you up because you’ve never really liked Janet.
You pop one of the Xanax you keep hidden behind the Monster and the vodka in your office.
Your wife knocks on your office door. “You still talking to Ted?” she asks.
“Hold on a second, Ted,” you say into your pretend phone, which you then pretend to cover even though your office door is closed and your wife can't see you. “Yeah," you say to her. "Poor guy’s a mess.”
Your wife says she thought she heard you crying. You say that was actually Ted— that you accidentally put him on speaker for a moment there. She asks why she hasn’t heard you say anything besides several curse words since you started talking to Ted. You tell her Ted just needs someone to listen to him right now.
Another plot twist idea pops into your head. You tell your wife you feel bad for making Ted hold like this and need to get back to lending him your ear.
“Sorry about that, Ted,” you say into your pretend phone loud enough for your wife to hear. “Please continue. Yeah, you were saying you don’t know how you’re going to get through this, and I was telling you I know you will, and that I’m here for you, and that you have so much to live for.”
Through the door, your wife says you’re a good friend. A good man. A great husband. Says she’s lucky to have you in her life.
You take a break from staring at your manuscript to cover your pretend phone, then tell your wife, “Ditto.”
“Oh, and by the way,” your wife says, a little bite in her voice, “I have your phone.”
She pauses for your heart attack, then says, “You left it on the couch before running to your writing office to find it.”
Says she was just on a real phone call—with Janet. Says Janet’s doing great. Ted too.
Says she’s going to stay with them for the next few days, maybe longer.
Says, “That ought to give you plenty of time to write. Jackass.”
Before any of you unsubscribe, un-follow, un-friend me, and/or urge my wife to divorce me, please note that what you just read is full of hyperbole and over-dramatizations for the sake of entertainment. I assure you I would never cover my mouth with my mouse pad—that thing has mold growing on it from all the vodka and Monster I’ve spilled on it. Also, I don’t have any friends named Ted, or in general.
If you would like to contribute funds to help pay for the therapy Greg needs, you can do so by going to his Amazon author page, clicking on one (or all) of the books featured, then clicking the “Buy Now” icon.
If you’re a writer—particularly if you’re a fiction writer, or a poet (you poor thing)—you know how it feels to work your creativity to the bone for little reward.
You can change all that. All you need is a little self-deception.
The trouble with many of us writers is we set challenging and often unrealistic goals, expectations and standards with regard to our work and our financial gains related to it. We all aim to create books of Cormac McCarthy-type quality and rake in J.K. Rowling-type sales figures. And when we inevitably end up falling ridiculously short, we brood, question our talent, and seriously consider pawning our laptop and thesaurus.
There’s no need for us writers to be so hard on ourselves. Leave that to literary agents and publishers, and to readers who comment on our Amazon page after we self-publish. What we need are a few easy wins, a couple of small accomplishments, to help inspire us to keep fighting the good fight and writing the good (or at least mediocre) write.
What we need is to lower the bar a bit.
With that in mind, following are some slightly less lofty goals, expectations and standards to shoot for going forward:
Write one hundred words a day. Stop being so ridiculously ambitious with your one thousand or two thousand words-a-day goal. All that does is leave you burnt out and disappointed. Now, a hundred words a day … that’s something you could do in your sleep, leaving you with a lot more time during the day to get drunk in celebration of your achievement.
Receive personalized rejection notices. Enough with your pipe dream of having a literary agent tell you she/he is interested in your novel. Just be happy when you get a rejection notice that actually includes your full name and the title of your book that will never get representation. Most agents these days either completely ignore queries or reject them with a form letter, so yeah, you’d better be proud when you get personally spurned. It means you’ve almost come close to making it.
No more than one typo… per page. With all the distractions of Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Tinder, nobody can expect a writer to write totally clean copy, or even to catch their grammatical and spelling errors during the editing process. If you can keep your typos down to just one per manuscript page, you deserve a pat on the back and have earned the right to continue wasting valuable time on social media and dating apps.
Sell more than one copy the first week. All your friends and relatives and people you corner at gatherings and the grocery store will express tremendous interest in your novel, but only .001 percent of them will actually buy it. Knowing this going in will save you lots of disappointment and self-harm. Now, certainly your own mother or father (though probably not both) will buy your book immediately after it becomes available, so selling one copy the first week is nothing to cheer about. However, if another human being (and no, you don’t count) purchases your book the first week, you’re allowed to pretend to be proud. If five or more people buy your book the first week, you’re allowed to actually be proud.
Get two legitimate reviews on Amazon. Too many authors—especially newbies—eagerly check their Amazon page for rave reviews every few hours after releasing a book. First off, it’s difficult to garner a ton of reviews when only three people have read your book. Secondly, most people hate to take the time to write anything, aside from Facebook posts about their kid or how upset they are about the season finale of their favorite TV show. So waiting for a bunch of reviews to pour in is an exercise in futility. Set the bar at two reviews on Amazon (over the life of your book), and there’s a fair chance you’ll achieve your goal. Just don’t expect either of the reviews to be more than three stars. Remember, you’ve got to aim low to guarantee the illusion of success.
Win an award … of your own making. Forget about the PEN/Faulkner Award or the Man Booker Prize—those are for masters like Philip Roth and Don DeLillo or writers you’ve never heard of but who got their MFA at Brown. It’s easy to feel like a failure if you shoot only for the elite book awards. Still, winning at least some type of book award is essential to tricking yourself into thinking you’re a successful writer. That’s why I recommend vying for awards that have a minimal number of entrants, such as awards you yourself create. You’re a fiction writer, so there’s nothing wrong with winning a fictional award. Before I was lucky enough to win an Independent Publishers Award (“IPPY”) in 2015 for my novel The Exit Man, I was the proud recipient of such awards as “Best Dark Comedy About a Party Supply Store Owner Who Lives a Double Life as a Euthanasia Specialist” and “The Greg Levin Lifetime Achievement Award For Literary Brilliance.” Not to brag.
Feel free to leave a comment below. My goal used to be to get ten comments per blog post; now I’m following my own advice and shooting for one.
It’s not uncommon for writers to spiral into madness. Less common, however, is to have such spiraling captured nice and neatly in a spiral-bound notebook.
A couple of months ago, a waitress at a café in Portland, Oregon, found a journal someone had accidentally left behind at one of her tables. The waitress had never before seen the customer who‘d been sitting at the table, and the journal contained no name or contact information inside. What it did contain were numerous entries from an aspiring author who’d been gradually losing his patience – and, ultimately, his marbles.
Following are several key excerpts from the journal, which, ironically enough, will soon be published by Harper Collins.
August 12, 2015: I’m so excited – I finally finished writing my debut novel! Will hire a professional editor to get the book in tip-top shape before I start submitting it to literary agents. To help pay for the editing services, I plan to work a few extra shifts at my job, and to sell my plasma and sperm on a weekly basis.
September 8, 2015: Got my manuscript back from the professional editor, who corrected a ton of typos and grammatical errors, provided a lot of feedback on how to improve the beginning, middle and end of the book as well as most of the characters and dialogue, and she recommended I consider a career working with numbers rather than words. She did say mine wasn’t the absolute worst manuscript she’s ever edited, and I told her I was very grateful for the compliment. As soon as I stop crying and cutting myself, I’ll get to work on the second draft.
October 17, 2015: After more than a month of revisions and amphetamine use, I feel my manuscript is ready to submit to agents! I can’t afford to pay for any more professional editing, but my mother read the new draft and said it’s one of the best novels by one of her children she’s ever read. Tomorrow I shall send query letters to ten of the top literary agents specializing in my genre. I can’t believe it – in just a few weeks I might have an agent! Or a substance abuse problem. Probably both.
October 18, 2015: Wow, that was fast. Already received my first rejection from an agent. While she opted not to represent me/my novel, she must really respect me and my time; otherwise she would have drawn out the rejection process for weeks or months, or perhaps ignored my query letter altogether. Such prompt communication is a hopeful sign! Granted, the rejection came in the form of an auto-response email featuring the words ‘DO NOT REPLY’ in the subject line, but still, I believe good things lie ahead! Now where did I leave my Vicodin and my razor blades…
October 23, 2015: Received two more rejections today, one from an agent I didn’t even query, which is strange. Feeling a bit down, but nothing a little electroshock therapy and Red Bull won’t be able to fix. I keep reminding myself that Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was rejected 121 times before being published, and my manuscript features a much cooler font than his did.
October 29, 2015: There is a God! I received a request from an agent asking to see the first three chapters of my novel! I danced around the house naked for two hours. I then received a request from my neighbor asking that I close the blinds the next time I decide to dance.
November 8, 2015: Received two more form letter rejections, but what do I care? I’m practically signed already. I almost feel sorry for these foolish agents who are rejecting me now, as I can foresee the tremendous anguish and remorse they’ll each suffer once my novel explodes onto the bestseller list. It’ll be hard for any of them to bounce back from such an err in judgment, from such a missed opportunity. Just ask the guy who almost signed The Beatles or The Rolling Stones or The Wiggles.
November 17, 2015: It’s happening! The agent who requested the first three chapters a couple of weeks ago just asked me to send her the remainder of my manuscript. I drank a bottle of champagne and defiantly danced naked in the window facing my aforementioned neighbor’s house. Nobody tells this soon-to-be bestselling author what to do, not even the cops who are walking up my driveway right this moment.
November 18, 2015: Recovering nicely from the taser burns I suffered at the hands of the police yesterday. Thankfully no charges were made against me. The lead officer was kind enough to let me off with a warning after I promised to dedicate my upcoming bestseller to his German Shepherd.
December 1, 2015: There must have been some sort of a mix-up. Maybe it’s just a practical joke. Today I received a rejection notification from the agent who had requested my full manuscript. When I called her office to get to the bottom of this, they told me she was out to lunch – all 23 times I called. She has also yet to respond to any of the 27 emails I sent her since receiving the rejection a few hours ago. I can’t think straight. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t remember if any of my friends own a gun, or what the penalty is for kidnapping.
December 2, 2015: The reality of my recent rejection – when I was just inches away from literary fame and wealth – has just started to set in. So has the severe gastrointestinal distress from eating seven pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream with Diazepam sprinkles on top. After I induce vomiting, I think I’ll take a nice warm bath with the toaster. Oh, wait a sec, I think I see the mailman outside, and he appears to be smiling. Mailmen can sense good news inside of envelopes! I bet the three he just stuck in my mailbox are from agents dying to sign me!
December 2, 2015: Nope. Turns out the three envelopes were: 1) a credit card offer; 2) a warning from the electric company about my past due bills; and 3) another rejection notification from an agent. The plan now is to use the new credit card to pay the electric company as well as to buy a one-way plane ticket to New York City, where I will hand-deliver a basket full of dead rodents to each of the literary agencies that have spurned me. While in the city, I plan to also visit the Empire State Building and see who makes it down from the observation deck faster – me or my unpublished novel. See you in hell, everybody! (Assuming I don’t get rejected there, too.)
NOTE: You’ll be relieved to know there have been no recent reports of anyone jumping or attempting to jump from the top of the Empire State Building. That said, the body of a man with an Oregon ID was recently found on a bench in Central Park, lying next to a half-eaten manuscript.
There are plenty of feel-good quotes intended to inspire writers to fully embrace the craft and to dream and create and succeed.
Boooring.
I prefer quotes like this one from American science fiction writer John Scalzi:
"Engrave this in your brain: EVERY WRITER GETS REJECTED. You will be no different."
I have received my fair share of rejection letters from literary agents and publishers in my time as a writer. When I received my first few (back when I was pitching my debut novel, Notes on an Orange Burial) I became very discouraged and dispirited. After a while, however, I grew thicker skin. I also realized it wasn’t the agents’ and publishers’ fault that they were born without the ability to recognize latent literary brilliance. I just chalked it up to bad genetics. (Theirs, not mine.)
I even started to feel sorry for some of the agencies and publishing houses for lacking the wisdom and foresight to sign me. But I knew my pity wasn’t going to help them. So I decided to start rejecting their rejection letters with a rejection letter of my own.
Since I’m not a complete sociopath with a writing-career death wish, I never actually sent my “Rejection Letter for Rejecting a Rejection Letter” to any agents or publishers. However, I think it would be a lot of fun if you did so the next time you receive a rejection letter. (For those of you who aren’t writers, feel free to pass this post on to your friends or family members who are, or who think they are.)
And without further ado, here it is—the Rejection Letter for Rejecting a Rejection Letter:
Dear (name of agent or publisher),
Thank you very much for your recent rejection notification. Unfortunately, I am unable to accept your rejection at this time. Please understand I receive a high volume of rejection notifications and must be highly selective in choosing those I'm able to handle.
The acceptance of rejection notifications is a highly subjective process. The fact that I have decided to pass on your rejection in no way signifies your rejection is sub-par, and I encourage you to continue rejecting authors’ queries and submissions. Just because I have decided to pass on your rejection doesn’t mean there aren’t numerous other authors who’d be happy to be rejected by you.
I wish you the best of luck in your future rejection endeavors and want to thank you for allowing me to review your work.
Sincerely,
(Your name here. Or a made-up name—to ensure that you have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever having another agent or a publisher even THINK about accepting your manuscript.)
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