“You Just Have to Rewrite It”
On dealing with literary rejection
CODY LEEWRITING ADVICE
Rejecting Rejection
Earlier I mentioned receiving the kind of feedback that hurt. It wasn’t insulting or belittling. It hurt because it was true, and I immediately felt embarrassed for having queried work that, looking back, clearly wasn’t ready.
But I would’ve never known had I not gotten out of my own head and queried and received feedback from the most important audience: the one I’m pitching to. Like I said, a gift.
Remember, the job of editors and agents isn’t to tell you “No.” They gain nothing from rejecting you. In fact, they just lost valuable hours spending time with a project they’ll never think about again and not get paid for. They’re rooting for you. They want you to succeed. Which is part of why it hurts.
If you do receive insulting or disrespectful feedback (which I’ve discovered is quite rare; these are professionals after all), you’ll find it doesn’t actually hurt. In my case it’s been easy to shrug off and even laugh at. More reflective of their character and professionalism than my writing.
But the good stuff, the insightful “here’s what you’re doing wrong and why I can’t take this” kind of feedback cuts. Let it. Then get to work. So you’re pissed off? Good. Funnel the anger into energy and revise like the world owes you something. Or, take a hiatus. Work on something new for a while. Chances are, you’ll come back with clear eyes and realize, “Hey, they might be on to something.”
Because all rejection means is you just have to rewrite your book. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I’ll never forget the first time I began querying agents. Fresh out of my MFA, I thought I had everything I needed: a polished manuscript, a nice pitch, and a few referrals from my professors. I knew to expect more misses than hits—just one “yes” was all I needed—but even still I was taken aback at the unceremonious wave of rejection. Over a dozen letters telling me my work had merits but was ultimately “not what they were looking for.”
In hindsight, this isn’t the least bit surprising. I was pitching an MFA thesis and hadn’t fully grasped the amount of research necessary to find the right agent.
When I went to my mentor, who had referred me to a couple of agents, he shrugged and said:
“All it means is you just have to rewrite your book.”
Daunting as that seemed in the moment, I knew he was right.
Fast forward ten years, and I’m dealing with a similar scenario. Different book. Different list of agents. Different connection. Same result.
Except this agent was courteous enough to provide some rather instructive feedback. The good kind of feedback. The kind that hurts because you know they’re right. Once again, all it means is I just have to rewrite my book.
When you choose to pursue a career in writing—writing books, that is—you know it is going to be hard. The labor itself is one thing. Hundred and even thousands of hours poured into a single project. The mental toll is another. For months and even years at a time, a significant portion of your mind is focused, obsessed, with a single idea. To come out the other side of that and be told some variation of “Thanks, but no thanks, this isn’t what we’re looking for,” is deflating, to say the least.
Rejection is an expectation of the job. It’s not something you can avoid. Nor should you. Critique and rejection keeps your craft healthy. It also prevents you from embarrassing yourself. But squaring away the frustration and doubt can be difficult. Am I even any good at this? Is this idea even worth pursuing? Will anyone even care?
When it comes to getting published, I’m a total novice with only a handful of stories and essays out in the world. But I’m an absolute veteran of literary rejection. I’ve also been on the other side, having worked as an editor at a literary journal myself. Take it for what it’s worth, but here’s how I’ve learned to process disappointment and anger into productive energy.
Hey, look! You’re doing it!
It starts with a little cognitive reframing. Rejection is validation of your status as a writer. It’s an acknowledgement that you are in fact striving toward the thing you want. Again, getting turned down more often than accepted is the realistic expectation of the process. Check your rejections off a list if you have to. Consider dismissal another step in the long process of finding your words a home.
You’re On To Something
Believe it or not, a negative response is a sign that someone found your writing worth reading and even took the time to write you back. That’s huge! This is an industry where it’s not uncommon to be ignored entirely. Journals will take literal years to get back to you with a pre-filled form rejection—a simple click of a button on a submission software app. Many, if not most, agents will tell you if you don’t hear from them after a few weeks, assume it’s a “No.” They can’t possibly be bothered to write to everyone who queries them. So if someone writes you back with even one sentence of critique, consider it a positive step forward and something of a gift.
It should go without saying, but never air your frustrations out on the party that rejected you. Not only is it poor form, you’ll only appear immature and thin-skinned while landing yourself on that journal’s or agent’s blacklist. (Yes, they have one.) If they offered feedback, kindly thank them for it.
Now make good on that. Was the feedback helpful? Probably so. After all, this is the audience gatekeeping your work from the world. You should probably listen. By no means is their word gospel, but you should weigh their suggestions and/or problems against your vision. Trust your gut. You’ll know when they just don’t “get” your writing and are the wrong fit versus when they make a good point. Another writer once told me: When someone tells you there’s something wrong with your story, they’re probably right, but the solution they give is probably wrong; you have to find that yourself.