I didn't sell a single story in 2014. It wasn't for lack of trying, in fact the number of rejections I piled up would indicate that I tried rather hard. But this isn't about bitterness or my basement full of empties. It's about the different ways writers can be rejected and how it might be funny to talk about types of rejection. After some time spent sorting through memory and email, I came up with five. Check it out.


The P.F.O.

This is your standard boiler plate. A form email thanking you for your submission, announcing that they've decided to pass, and wishing you luck placing the piece elsewhere. The P.F.O. is professional, timely, and easily shrugged off. The majority of rejections will come in the form of a P.F.O.

The Boomerang

The rejection you get two hours, or twenty minutes, after submitting. It's good because you don't have a chance to get anxious and eat a pack of Twizzlers. It's bad because you know they didn't read your entire story, and since no one expects a rejection that soon, it probably hit you in the ear.

The Not So Golden Silence

... *twiddles thumbs*...

The Skin Thickener, aka Rejectasaurus Rex

Sometimes an editor loathes your story so, so much that they take many minutes out of their slush filled day to compose a withering email denouncing your narrative voice, your characterization, your pacing, and your geology (true story, this dude really didn't like shale). At best you feel like a hack, and at worst you're left questioning several life choices that aren't even writing related. The maddening part is that at least some of the criticism, while harsh, usually has merit and once you finish licking your wounds* you will use it to improve your piece.
* Coping pro tip:  Twizzlers are paired remarkably well with a 12 year-old Balvenie single malt.

The Tailwind

The best rejection you can get. Most editors are overburdened with reading, so it means something when they take the time to reject in a personal and positive way. They'll tell you they loved your characters even if the story isn't right for them, or that the language is beautiful but it's slow to develop. These are the unexpected but welcome writerly hugs that encourage us to keep going. These editors also tend to be the kind who are fantastic to work with if they do accept your work.


So, my fellow rejects, there you have it. If you've experienced a form of rejection I haven't discussed, I invite you to share in the comments. Meanwhile, I'm off to the bottle depot.

S.

When my sibs and I were young, my mom would get it in her head every few years to celebrate one of the lesser holidays like Valentine's Day, or in this case, St. Patrick's. And when I say celebrate, I mean use a terrifying amount of food dye to paint our supper the shade of the Emerald Isle.

That night she prepared meatloaf, boiled potatoes, peas, and 'gravy' made from that great Lutheran binder, condensed cream of mushroom soup. A fully delicious meal, and one which anybody who grew up in a large/religious family is likely familiar. Now view that starchy economical feast through a shamrock green lens.

The peas were fine, being untampered with. The potatoes? Well, the dye wasn't distributed uniformly so our spuds appeared to be afflicted with blight of some kind. The meatloaf was the worst, appearing for all the world to be the ground remains of Oscar the Grouch. It tasted good but looked like hell. Of course any kid knows what to do in this situation. Smother the offending food item in gravy, right? Wrong. Green mushroom soup...yeah.

If memory serves, we had a splendid time, laughing over our verdant meal, making faces and gagging noises, some theatrical, some not. I think Dad ate a second helping to be supportive, and Mom was a good sport, admitting that it was all sort of nauseating.

I'm tempted to inflict this same experience on my own larvae...


Happy St. Patrick's Day!


S.

I just finished my yoga practice. Normally Mondays are running days, but because a new blizzard seems to be blowing past my window every ten minutes or so, I decided to switch my yoga and running days.

Is this a big deal? To a rational mind, no. But I have, on occasion, been accused of rigidity. That doesn't mean I can't ever switch up my routine, only that I prefer not to. 

Anyway, I made the decision to switch, quelled the resulting low-grade panic with muscle melting yoga, and I feel all right now.

Yoga is good for a 'rigid' person like me. It's something you have to do properly though. Be in the moment, move with the breath, set an intention, honour your body etc. I have a confession. Last Friday I found myself texting in the midst of my practice. When I say 'found myself' what I mean is that I couldn't remember how the phone got into my hand. I was at home so at least I wasn't disrespecting other people, but it seems the phone reach is programmed into my muscle memory. It's kind of appalling. I mean, I make fun of people wearing those silly fucking Fit Bits, but I'm no better. 

Yoga is a good teacher. It's a good reminder. In the last few days yoga brought three important things to my attention.

1. I am more flexible than I think I am
2. I need to make a concerted effort to regularly unplug
3. I am a hypocrite and shouldn't be so judgey regarding Fit Bits

Moving on...