Rejection Redux

"Tonic for the soul..."

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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It All Started . . .

With my usual mix of anticipated glory and stomach-sinking trepidation, I submitted an essay about my love for the thesaurus to one of the top writing magazines. With the manuscript, I enclosed a letter summarizing the essay and listing some credits. (They specified only surface mail with the then-requisite self-addressed stamped envelope.)

A month later, to my shock, I received a personal note from the editor-in-chief. She rejected the essay with great grace: “I regret that we cannot make a place for it and I am returning it to you herewith.”

But the second paragraph sent shivers of ecstasy through me and incidentally saved me from the canyons of depression:

I note that you have written a very successful book for children [my Tyrannosaurus Wrecks: A Book of Dinosaur Riddles, Harper/Collins] and perhaps you’d like to try your hand at a piece on writing nonfiction books for young people. If you do so and are willing to submit it on spec, we’ll be glad to give it a careful reading and prompt reply.

I plunged in. But all I knew about writing for kids was creating the riddles for the dinosaur riddle book. I’d never taken classes in children’s writing or written much in the genre. I felt wholly inadequate to producing “a piece on writing nonfiction books for young people.”

Besides, how could riddles be considered nonfiction? Science fiction, maybe—I’d pushed the envelope, and almost ripped it, with puns that belonged on the far side of Jurassic Park. But after many sleepless nights, I realized, like a classic knock on the head. that I should write what I knew—how I created the riddles.

So, over many weeks, I squeezed out a first draft. And then, over several months, a second, third, and fourth. Finally, repeating to myself that the editor had actually asked for the article, I sent the manuscript with a reminder note about her invitation.

The Judgment

Only a week later, a letter arrived. Even before reading it, I felt rejected.

It was written not by the editor but one of her minions. Barely noticing her compliment, I sank, trying to fend off the deathblow: “While the piece is certainly well-written, we feel that overall, it’s too specialized for our readership.”

At first, I cursed the tunnel vision of editors—hadn’t I included writing principles that could apply to many kinds of children’s writing? Then, capitulating to writers’ universal belief in editors’ flawless judgments, I fell prey to a common malady: why the piece had really been rejected. It was too short, too long, too general, too specific, too cute, too serious, too superficial, too profound, had too many riddles, not enough riddles.

I stuffed all my drafts and the letter far back in the writing file, equivalent of the morgue. And had no desire to resume any other writing projects.

But I couldn’t drag my pencils forever. One day, sitting at my desk, with the screen blank and cursor scolding in regular rhythm, I thought dolefully, Where to go for solace? I’d worn out all my friends and belonged to no writing groups from which to scrape a crumb of empathy.

My eyes swept the shelf of writing books. And caught the title of one, long out of print, that’s still often quoted for its universal panaceas: John White’s Rejection.

Like a magnet, my hand plucked the book from the shelf, and I opened it at random. Here I wolfed down the words. Of Dr. Seuss, whose books were rejected about two dozen times before he became a children’s idol. Of Gertrude Stein, who submitted poems for twenty years before an editor published her first. Of William Saroyan’s pile of rejection slips that numbered about 7,000—before any acceptance at all.

Tonic for the soul, indeed. Tempted to keep reading and drunk with the justification of being in such great company, I tore myself away, promising to return to the book after writing 100 words of anything.

Mounting Up Again

And kept at it. Forgetting that lone piece, I turned my attention to others, with some (miraculous) acceptances. Such results gave me the courage to try different things.

One of these, three years later, was a call for articles from a children’s writer’s magazine. I suddenly thought of my riddle book and that article about creating the riddles that had been interred for so long.

So, holding my breath, I exhumed it. Holding my nose, I read it. And sighed, not with disgust but relieved surprise—it wasn’t so bad. Of course, my more mature critical eye saw the need for reworking, tightening, and polishing, but it was all manageable.

Heartened by this self-assessment, I recalled that the magazine I’d sent the article to originally had been recently sold. Now there was a new look, a new editor, and a new staff. Why not? So, I spruced up the article (editing never ends) and sent it with a note to the newly anointed editor, complimenting the revamped format and offering wishes for success.

And waited. And eventually forgot about what I’d mailed.

One bright summer day, nine months later, I spotted in the mailbox not my own manila SASE but a #10 with the magazine’s return address. At first, hope leapt like a fawn. But then, I quickly squashed such foolishness: obviously they’d lost my envelope and had sprung for the stamp to make sure I got the form rejection.

I unfolded the letter slowly, squinting at the type. And felt like the starlet who landed a lead in Beauty and the Beast—as the beast. The verdict was from a senior editor:

We discussed your article at a recent story conference and think it may have potential for us down the road, but we are not in a position to purchase it at the moment. We are keeping your article charted and on file and will get in touch with you if a slot opens up for it.

“Charted and on file”? What the freakin’ syntax did that mean? “If a slot opens”? This was almost worse than an outright no, and I was certain they’d contrived such elaborate rejective phraseology as tacit apology for having kept the piece so long.

This time, though, slightly more toughened, I sighed, shrugged, and stuffed the letter into the writing morgue box next to the article and first correspondence. And pursued other writing interests.

And Then . . .

Five months later, among the bills, I spied a #10 with that same distinctive return address logo. This time, I knew not to expect anything. But when I read the letter, I almost fell off my pile of rejected manuscripts. The signature at the bottom was the managing editor’s, and the words I’d hungered for so long and had almost given up on sang out like a Broadway chorus:

We’d like to publish this piece in a future issue. Please call to let me know if you accept and/or if you have any questions.

If I accept? When I called him, I tried not to drool into the phone.

And so, the almost-defunct dinosaur riddle piece, which had risked fossilization in my writing files, emerged snorting with fiery life and belly-laughing riddles. The article came out—six and a half years after its first rejection by this very magazine.

Some Lessons of Persistence

I used no special methods of submission. I hadn’t slept with the editor’s son, didn’t know him, and didn’t bribe an assistant. I learned not to consider rejected pieces as dead, only to be mercifully buried at the bottom of a storage box. I’ve known of many writers who have resurrected, recirculated, and finally published twenty-year-old articles. My dinosaur riddle article wasn’t that hoary, but it was nevertheless long in the wooly mammoth tusk.

I also learned that editors’ rejections aimed straight at our entrails aren’t a sweeping damnation of our work, talent, and life. Editors aren’t impenetrable icons—they change positions, policies, and their minds. Times, tastes, markets, ownerships, editors, editors’ judgments, and editors’ moods can and do change—and often in our favor.

Now, please excuse me. I’ve got to go dive into my dusty box of discarded articles and see what I can dust off, update, edit, and brazenly send out.

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