Defending Your Darlings

Writer discusses decision to withdraw work after acceptance

Welcome to our weekly column offering perspectives on lit mag publishing, with contributions from readers, writers and editors around the world.

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I sent a rejection letter to a literary magazine. After much consideration, I decided they weren’t a good fit. 

Before you write me off as a diva, let me explain.

Following a parade of similar letters in my own inbox, I received my first acceptance with a sigh of relief. After dozens of workshops and feedback swaps, watching colleagues and friends find success, I feared I’d be left behind.

An associate editor promised to reconnect regarding “necessary edits.” Though I pictured my little story covered in digital red slashes, I refused to let insecurity spoil my excitement. Torturous days passed waiting for an editor’s notes. Weeks turned to months with nothing but crickets. The editor-in-chief ghosted requests for a status update.

Impostor syndrome led to anxiety-ridden speculation. During the story’s inception via workshop a few months prior, many fellow students disliked my ambiguous ending and the instructor insisted I give the protagonist a name. Perhaps those symbolic touches were darlings I’d be asked to murder, and the editors were scratching their heads over how to broach the subject.

Two months turned to three. The crickets staged a walkout at all the overtime they put in. I refreshed my inbox so often Gmail invented a new error message just for me: 404b GET A HOBBY.

I re-read the story to reassure myself that it had merit, but admitted some passages could be strengthened. A bit of pride poked through the initial cringe. In the interim, I must have learned a few new skills.

A lightbulb went off. Rather than simply prod the editors again, I spiffed up the story and re-sent it with a summary. Hey! I made some revisions of my own! What do you think of that?

A few days later, a contract and editor’s commentary arrived in my inbox, along with an apology for the delay and a Perfectly Reasonable Explanation. Huzzah for persistence!

In theory.

The good news: the darlings I fretted over were not only safe, but endorsed. I happily deleted all the recommended adverbs (a humiliating quantity), rewrote passages for clarity, and augmented underwritten plot details.

With the nuts and bolts tightened, I evaluated the remaining suggestions more closely.

The bad news: imagery was my focus in this contemporary prose-poem, but the editor re-wrote most of the showing in favor of telling (emotions that “plunged into her stomach and rippled through her skin” became simply “worry”), swapped adjectives for synonyms with no explanation (“stalked” vs. “marched”), peppered the narrative with filters like “began to” and antiquated words like “hence,” and altered the patter of a key character’s voice to a stilted, indistinct rhythm.

While drafting a story, occasionally my gut will tighten and grind, refusing to let me move forward. My posture will shift as though physically repelled, and I read my words at an angle instead of straight on. Once the offending passage comes clear, everything snaps into alignment. Reading this revision brought less a snap than a fracture. Worse than uncovering a patch of passive voice or flat prose, I no longer recognized the story as mine.

I asked the editor for their rationale behind these suggestions, only to be met with more ghosting.

The crickets’ union sent over some grasshoppers. Their larger appendages made a stunning vibrato that kept me awake at night.

Eventually a third editor wrote back—with a slightly different draft—but none of my questions answered, as if I never asked.

The thought of clicking “accept” brought back that dreaded grinding, fractured sensation. If I signed off on this story, it would be for the wrong reasons: a line on my bio and validation as a “real” writer. Edits should bring a sigh of relief that someone more astute polished your efforts to a high shine. But this time, the only relief would have come from getting it over with.

Sometimes an editor calls a hit on elements you don’t expect. Voice isn’t a darling, but a necessity.

I apologized for the inconvenience but declined my first offer of publication. It broke my heart, shoving me back into that “always a reader, never an author” mindset. I let the story ferment before polishing it up again and submitting elsewhere.

As I search for a better match, I worry (only sometimes) if I’ll find it. Perhaps my novice self should have shut up and gone along. Then I remind myself that I’ve since found homes for other stories, made connections with other editors that enhanced my work and treated me as a collaborative partner.

When the spirit of a story is wiped away, it’s a sign of incompatibility. Voice and style are the only distinguishing aspects an author truly owns, the partnership that makes their work unique, the only facets that must be forged instead of taught.

Relinquishing distinctive expression is too high a price to pay for a byline, an important lesson for any writer, but especially those just getting started.

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