Cheers and Boos

And why it's okay you can't get used to rejection

I didn’t want to talk about getting rejected, because what does it say that a professional writer can’t get her personal work to be accepted anywhere? My default thought is that I’m not good enough. Our default cultural tendency is to align with “winners,” so am I hurting my career by admitting I’m getting rejected all the damn time?

Lots of writers and other creatives share inspirational stories about all the rejections they received before they make it big. Few share what it’s like to be in the middle of it, when there’s no cute bow to tie up a feel-good story about persevering through the constant NOs to finally get that big YES. Often we only want to hear about the NOs if we already know there’s a YES at the end of the story. Nobody wants to hear about the people who tried and “failed” (at commercial success) over and over, and then they died, although these stories are much more inspirational. Why are we in awe of people who receive 37 rejections only to land a book deal, but not the people who receive 356 rejections and still keep going, never getting a yes?

Although we like to believe that if we just try hard enough, we can make it eventually, that’s not true. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a yes big enough to allow me to exclusively write my own words and not anyone else’s. Many people, talented or not, never make it. Right now, there are plenty of brilliant writers, musicians, painters, and dancers who will never be known. There are gorgeous songs and paintings and books everywhere, never to be discovered. Talent and luck and timing and knowing the right people matter more than hard work. We don’t want to believe it because we think if someone is good enough and works hard enough, they will rise to the top. Sometimes that happens, of course, and I get immense joy out of being introduced to the work of a new brilliant artist who’s finally getting some recognition. Yet there are plenty of movies and songs and books that top awards nominations and charts and bestseller lists that are absolute garbage, or at least not any better than the thousands just like it that didn’t make it.

Being a good writer and being a good salesperson are two very different things. Selling other people’s stuff and selling yourself are separate skill sets.

I’m excellent at writing other people’s stuff and pretty good at selling it. I’m the best at writing my own stuff, but I’m the worst at selling myself.

All the Cool Shit I Wanted and Didn’t Get So Far:

I applied for the Joel Gay Creative Fellowship (a grant

Roxane Gay

created in honor of her brother). Didn’t get it. I submitted an essay to Mamalode. Got rejected. I pitched my memoir idea to an agent, Bill Clegg. Never heard back. I pitched a story idea to the Pipe Wrench, and got the nicest rejection letter ever. I pitched that story idea to two more online magazines, the Rumpus and Catapult. I’m still waiting to hear back from the Rumpus. Catapult liked the idea, but my scope was too broad. I was invited to submit a revised pitch. I did. It was rejected, because they felt the idea was still too broad. So I read a whole guidebook on successful queries and reworked my pitch into a third version, and added an excerpt. I was rejected again. YES, I WAS REJECTED THREE TIMES BY THE SAME PERSON. I entered a non-fiction contest by Women on Writing. I submitted three essays. None of them even made it beyond the first round of judging. I applied for a writer’s residency through Tin House. I haven’t heard back yet. Somebody I really like unsubscribed from this newsletter. I advertised Book Bestie, my first book coaching course and accountability group, in a newsletter geared towards writers with tens of thousands of subscribers. Guess how many sign-ups I’ve gotten so far?

It sounds and feels like a lot of rejection, but it really isn’t. I want to get to a point where I’m getting rejections every day because I’m putting myself out there so consistently.

This morning at the gym, I was supposed to do these:

Instead, I was doing these:

The trainer told me matter-of-factly, sorry, there is no way to make this not hurt. This is going to be hard for you. No shit. I actually had to repress the tears while hanging from the bar. I would have had to relax my core to cry, and if I did that, my arms would have just ripped out of their sockets.

I’m just starting to develop some calluses, finally. On my hands and my ego. I’m applying for two more residencies this month.

I sent my writing sample for these residencies to a friend and brilliant editor for feedback. I was nervous because I like her personally and respect her professionally. She used to work as an acquisitions editor for one of the big five publishing houses, and she doesn’t bullshit about writing. Her opinion holds weight.

Weeks of rejection after rejection and memories of one of my biggest clients basically telling me to fuck off, after praising my work for months, did a number on me. I had the nagging feeling that if I was such a great writer, why wouldn’t they make even the slightest effort to keep me? Why did I have such a hard time getting anywhere with my personal essays? Did “this isn’t the right fit” just mean, “actually, you suck?”

I was starting to feel like one of those contestants on American Idol whose best friend and mom didn’t have the heart to tell them they had no talent, and now they’d embarrassed themselves on national TV.

This would never happen to me because I did have an older sister who told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t sing.

When my editor friend completed her review, she asked me to get on the phone, and I expected she was going to kindly tell me that I shouldn’t quit my day job. Instead, she told me she’d be surprised if I didn’t get into the program. She said she had to step away, because one part hit her so hard, she needed to take a break. She used the word excellent. She said she couldn’t wait to read more. She said “when” instead of “if,” talking about this excerpt becoming a book. I choked up on the phone, asking her if she was serious. I don’t lie about writing. It’s why I normally don’t read my friends’ stuff. It can fuck up a relationship.

I was elated. I ran up the stairs to tell Rob. I wrote down what she said so I could read it when the next rejection fluttered into my inbox.

The more I put myself out there, the more cheers and boos I collect, and the more I realize that the cheers and boos are the same. Largely opinions and perspectives, some of them matter more than others, but none matter as much as what I think. I’ll never be one of those people who gives zero fucks, but I’ve had moments where I read something I wrote and liked it regardless of feedback. The words expressed something I’ve held in for so long that seeing it outside myself was meaningful.

I haven’t found where I fit yet. It’s a constant struggle to refuse making myself fit where I know I don’t belong. Resisting the urge of wanting to be liked and avoiding people’s judgment while trying to write the most truthful thing is like doing pull-ups. It’s going to hurt developing those muscles, and so far, all I have to show for my effort, are calluses.

Week Seven Stats: Zero new words, but the realization that I’ve already written a large part of this book. I’ve started reorganizing what I’ve had all along.