Just because a person publishes a book or two or even three doesn’t automatically mean that the person is a TRUE writer. And just because a person has never published even a single book doesn’t mean that the person is automatically NOT a true writer.
While it may seem as if everyone today is a writer, a TRUE writer is actually a rather rare breed. A true writer is a highly dedicated and extremely passionate individual who, most importantly, is completely miserable most of the time.
Of course, that’s a bit of an overgeneralization. To find out if you truly are a true writer, read through the following list of traits and characteristics. If you are able to identify with all or most of them, I regret to inform you that you are indeed a true writer.
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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I’m often asked “What’s it like being a writer?” by my imaginary friends. My immediate response typically goes something like, “It’s just like any other job, only with more verbs.”
For those of you interested in a more intricate and (slightly) less ridiculous answer, below I describe a typical day in a writer’s life. I’ve opted to write it in second person to give you a real feel for what it’s like to pretend to make a living through the written word.
2:56 a.m. You wake up suddenly with a sense of dread and self-doubt, certain the novel you're working on is the worst thing you've ever written. You wonder why you ever stopped taking your medication.
2:57 a.m. You search the medicine cabinet for your old pills, popping one just for old time's sake. You fall back to sleep.
5:25 a.m. You wake up with a sense of euphoria and delusions of grandeur, certain the novel you're working on is the greatest thing you've ever written. You start planning what you'll wear to the Pen/Faulkner Awards dinner.
5:45 a.m. You go online to shop for your Pen/Faulkner Awards outfit, as 90% of your existing clothes fall into the category of pajamas.
6:30 a.m. You make a green breakfast smoothie containing all the vital nutrients you’ll need to fuel your brain and creativity for the entire two hours you plan on actually working that day. You wash the smoothie remnants down with a shot of vodka. You get the vodka taste out of your mouth by downing a can of Red Bull.
6:41 a.m. You sit down to write, but the Red Bull wants you to take a walk, which you do. You think about how many of the greatest writers used to take morning walks to clear their mind, and you smile at the thought of you being in the same “fraternity” as them. Then you think about how none of the greatest writers ever drank Red Bull, and you bow your head in shame – until the Red Bull picks you back up and reminds you that you are invincible and your novel is brilliant.
7:14 a.m. You sit down to write, and this time you actually start writing. Mostly tweets and Facebook author page updates about how you are a writer who is very busy writing. You take a break from the social media to actually add a couple of new paragraphs to your novel-in-progress.
8:02 a.m. You tweet and facebook about how you just added a couple of new paragraphs to your novel-in-progress.
8:05 am: You go on a hot streak with your novel writing and knock out five new pages… before realizing you already pretty much said everything you’ve just written several weeks earlier in a previous chapter. On top of that, one of the secondary characters you’ve involved in the action died three chapter ago. You delete all five “new” pages and curse yourself for declining your doctor’s offer to write you a prescription for amphetamines.
9:33 a.m. You decide to have another green smoothie to refuel, only this time you skip the actual green parts and go straight to the vodka, and then to the Red Bull, which, you tell yourself, is pretty much the same as amphetamines.
9:40: a.m. You sit down to write again and complete three of the most captivating and majestic pages you've ever written. You’re as lucid as you’ve ever been and your protagonist is fast becoming a highly compelling character who you’re certain will soon be etched in the minds of millions of readers, and who will be beloved for generations. You are in total harmony with your craft. Nothing can stop you now.
10:25 a.m. You stop to check your author page on Facebook to see if you have any new “likes”.
10:26 a.m. You continue working on your novel.
10:27 a.m. You stop to check your author website to see if your latest blog post has any new “likes” or comments.
10:28 a.m. You continue working on your novel.
10:29 a.m. You stop to check your Twitter account to see if your latest tweet about your Facebook author page and your author website got any retweets.
10:30 a.m. You congratulate yourself for your excellent multitasking skills, and then break for an early lunch.
11:20 a.m. You go to the mailbox and find a quarterly royalty check for your last novel.
11:21 a.m. You reenter the house, waving the royalty check ceremoniously above your head. You tell your spouse that you’re taking her/him out to dinner that night – to Chili’s… as long as she/he doesn’t get drinks or dessert.
11:22 a.m. You sit back down to continue working on your novel, but are too discouraged by the pitiful excuse of a royalty check you just received. You begin to wonder what’s the point of all this. You seriously consider scrapping the novel you’re working on and starting a new one about something that will actually sell.
11:55 a.m. You start writing the outline for a book about a post-apocalyptic vampire zombie invasion.
12:05 p.m. You realize you don’t know nearly enough about vampires or zombies or things post apocalyptic. You decide to spend the rest of the day doing research – watching Hulu and Netflix shows/movies covering the aforementioned topics.
7:00 p.m. You ask your spouse if you can just order Chili’s to go so that you can continue with your research, which you do until bedtime.
10:30 p.m. You lay in bed, excited about the huge sales figures your new novel idea could bring in. You convince yourself that you are not abandoning your artistic or literary principles but rather are adapting to the times and paving the way for a successful and lucrative fiction writing career.
10:45 p.m. After 15 minutes of sobbing quietly into your pillow, you fall asleep.
Whenever people ask what my upcoming novel – The Exit Man – is about and I tell them, “It’s about a party supply store owner who leads a double life as a euthanasia specialist, the response I often receive is, “You’re not well in the head.” Those who don’t nervously walk away from me then typically ask, “How did he get into that?”
Well, showing is always more interesting than telling. So, here’s an excerpt from Chapter 2 of the book to give you an idea of how my protagonist – Eli Edelmann – went from merely selling party supplies to facilitating final exits:
“You asked my father to kill you?” I asked Sgt. Rush, speaking in a hushed voice with my hand partially covering my mouth, even though we were alone in the shop.
“Sorry Eli – I should have handled that last part more subtly,” he said. “‘Kill’ is not the word. ‘Assist’ is much more accurate.”
“Assist? You were going to pay my father twenty grand to ‘assist’ you. With what, exactly?
“Stopping my cough.”
“What the… why?”
“C’mon Eli, look at me,” Sgt. Rush said just before unloading some more dust and dry phlegm into his handkerchief.
“What? You’re still a strong man… barely in your sixties. You used to get shot at by junkies and gang-bangers – surely you can hack a little emphysema?”
I was aware that I was severely understating his health condition, and that I had inadvertently issued a bad pun, but it was a very emotionally charged moment with little room for stronger arguments or better diction.
“Aw, Christ,” said Sgt. Rush, rolling his eyes. “Will you spare me the obligatory ‘You have everything to live for’ bullshit and just hear me out?”
“And why would you want to involve my father in this?”
“I’m getting to that, if you’d just close your mouth and open your ears for a second.”
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
Sgt. Rush cleared what was left of his throat, walked around to my side of the shop counter and sat down in the seat next to mine.
“First off, I’ve heard it all – hell I even used to say it all myself back when I was on the force: ‘Suicide is a cowardly act.’ ‘Suicide is selfish.’ Oh, and my favorite old chestnut, ‘Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem’ – well, not when you’re chronically ill with two diseases, one of which eats your mind.”
“Wait, what else do you have?”
“Alzheimer’s. Goddamn early-onset ‘SDAT’ – Senile Dementia of the Alzheimer Type, to be more specific.”
“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Sgt. Rush, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, apparently neither will I within the next few months. And as for being ‘cowardly’ and ‘selfish’, that’s just people getting angry and tossing out insults because they’re too afraid to admit that sometimes taking one’s own life makes sense.”
“Okay, but what are we supposed to say when a friend mentions suicide? ‘Hey, good idea, Bill – let me know how I can help.’”
“No, but people do need to try to see things from the perspective of those in anguish. Especially when a degenerative disease – or two – is involved. To NOT do so, that’s selfish.”
“I agree. But it’s one thing to respect one’s decision to die, it’s quite another to help them carry it out. It’s gruesome and, uh, highly illegal. Why wouldn’t you just do it yourself, like normal suicidal people do – not that I’m condoning it.”
“Okay, at least we’re moving past the platitudes now and into the more pressing questions.”
“Yes, pressing indeed. Why did you ask my father to help you kill yourself?”
“I came to your father for three reasons: First, it’s really fucking hard to follow through with the act of suicide if you aren’t insane, no matter how badly you want out. Secondly, I knew your father was the kind of man who would do almost anything for a friend. And finally, he had easy access to the type of equipment needed for the job.”
“What equipment?”
“Helium.”
“Helium? That’s just going to give you a squeaky voice.”
“I’m not talking about inhaling a few small balloons’ worth. I’m talking about inhaling a steady flow of the stuff, which is highly lethal and, when done right, one of the most painless ways to die.”
Sgt. Rush was grinning – actually grinning – as he delivered his macabre chemistry lesson.
“And best of all,” he continuted, “helium is nearly undetectable in toxicology reports.”
“Who cares? What, do they take away your pension for inert gas infractions? You’ll be dead.”
“You’re missing the point. If nobody finds any evidence of the helium – or anything else – in my system, it won’t be ruled a suicide. Remember, I’m a sick man – they’ll assume I died of ‘natural’ causes… with pride intact, and no life insurance coverage issues for my daughter to deal with.”
“What about the helium tank and whatever you plan on using to breathe the gas into your body? Won’t they find those items when...”
Cue the clicking sound in my head. It was at this moment that I came to fully understand what my father’s role was to be in the aforementioned arrangement.
“Ohhhh,” I said, nodding my head slowly and, for whatever reason, smiling.
“You’re a smart guy, Eli. I knew you’d catch on.”
(end of excerpt)
Would you read on? (If not, I’m in trouble – the book is done and will be out in just a few weeks!)
You can read a couple more excerpts from The Exit Man here, including the beginning of the opening chapter. And you can get the entire first chapter of the book (for free) simply by joining my mailing list. Enjoy!
My fans often ask what I'm working on, what I plan to write next, to which I typically respond, "Mom, Dad, stop bugging me and pass the potatoes." Today, however, I’ve decided to share what's in my novel hopper. And while I'm aware that publicly sharing my ideas for future fiction projects brings with it the risk of another writer stealing one and running with it, I'm putting my faith in the artistic authenticity and common decency of authors. Plus I know a kick-ass intellectual property lawyer.
Following are several ideas I have for novels – some of which I've already started, some of which are merely visions I had after ingesting the wrong (read: right) type of mushroom.
Novel idea #1 Jake Killian must travel to Bali to find and rescue his drug-addled brother, an ex-patriot artist who has fallen for a dangerous woman and crossed the wrong locals. Jake’s “to do” list once he arrives: Exchange money; buy sunscreen; find brother and, if he’s alive, bring him home. Tentative titles: The Seminyak Express; Down and Out in Nusa Dua
Novel idea #2 Charlie Braun has had enough. Exasperated and overwhelmed by the speed of modern living and society’s overreliance on technology, he decides he needs to get away. A remote cabin in the woods, a small bungalow on a secluded beach – these aren’t really options for Charlie, as he’s an incurable agoraphobic. He comes up with a possible solution: Voluntary imprisonment. All he needs to do now is decide what crime to commit so that he can “escape”. Tentative titles:Sabbatical on Cell Block Nine; Freedom in a Cage
Novel idea #3 Three gritty friends – all in their late 70s/early 80s – are fed up over the rapid decline of their community. Nearing the end of their lives and feeling they have little to lose, the trio decides to team up and take on the city’s most violent and unjust inhabitants. They use their elderly image and assumed feebleness to deceive criminals, gangbangers and bullies and lure them into their vigilante lair, all the while driven by the team’s mantra: “Getting even is more rewarding than getting old.” Tentative titles:Fire in Autumn; The Gray Goons
Novel idea #4 A group of three 40-something friends each receives the same bizarre email from a fourth friend – a man who none of them have been in touch with for years and who, based on his email message, is losing his mind. Now all the friends need to do is find out where in the world their troubled friend is and come to his aid before it’s too late. Armed with only a few cryptic clues, a common bond and a quest for adventure, the friends set out on a road (and air and rail) trip of a lifetime. Tentative titles:Searching for Sanderson; The Four
Novel idea #5 William, a once great but now struggling novelist, is visited and tormented by several of his incomplete characters – all of whom are furious over the fact that he has left them stranded in abandoned manuscripts. Each character demands that William complete the book in which he or she is currently “stuck”. Several threaten him with grave physical harm if he even thinks about killing them off before fully developing them and giving their stories a proper conclusion. Is this the end for William, or the best thing that could ever happen for his writing career? (I’ll ping Woody Allen to see if he's interested in the film rights.) Tentative titles: Character Flaws; Writing Wrongs
Which of the above books would you be most interested in reading? Which one(s) would you pay me NOT to write? Share your answers in the ‘Comments’ area below – unless you intend on being critical, in which case just send me a telegram.
