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Monday, March 1, 2010

Rejection Before Breakfast

Opened my email this morning to have a rejection waiting for me. It was six AM. There oughta be a law.

But in seriousness, I'll say that I don't mind the rejections right now, because they are signs of life. I learned the other day of a man who had weathered 11,000 no's -- and he has published several books as well as short stories in literary magazines. Rejection is a sign of life, that you are out there, committing to the process, sending up flares and hoping for a lifeboat.

And if all that floats back is a little dross, that slimy seaweed that makes me screech when it wraps around my legs, well, remember that this means the ocean is teeming with possibility, and one day, the tides will pull me in.

4 comments:

L. Diane Wolfe said...

Better than never receiving a reply I guess.

Look at it this way - the day can only get better!

bobmust said...

Keep sending 'em, Lyn. You're a good writer among a crowd of good writers. The more rejections you receive, the less you take it personally. Take it from one who has received more than a hundred for maybe 30-40 different works. Rejections just make you work harder, and that makes you a better writer.

Vince said...

I think, upon an historical review of great artists, that you'll find actual talent far too often goes unappreciated. One needs only to think of Van Gogh dying in obscurity, or Da Vinci living largely in poverty to understand that rejection is not a reflection of talent. How goes the manuscript by the way?

Lyn Fairchild Hawks said...

Diane: the day progressed in keeping with the theme of its beginning, but ended on a beautiful note: talking shop and swapping drafts with a fellow writer. All days should end so well!

Bob: I like that -- a good writer among many. I'm floored by all the amazing works that fill my shelves and have yet to fill my mind, heart, and soul. I wouldn't write without all this inspiration. There's room enough for all of us to create.

Vince, agreed. There's tragedy in the lack of recognition, and yet, perhaps there was true joy in the creative process that Vincent and Leonardo experienced alone, far from the madding, maddening, mundane crowd craving Britney rather than Bruce.