THANKS BUT NO THANKS

by John M. Floyd

I’ve decided, for this week’s Mississippi mudpie, to write about a subject I really understand. I can hear some of you now, saying that that might not be an easy task, for me. Well, you’re wrong. There’s one thing about fiction — specifically short fiction — that I know a lot about.

Rejections. Nobody likes them, nobody wants to get them, but at one time or another, you get them anyway. In business, in romance, in writing. Especially if you’re a beginning writer. I’m reminded of a saying we used to have in the computer industry, about those unfortunate consumers who try brand-new software releases: the earliest Christians get the hungriest lions. Believe me, in the publishing world, they do. And even veterans get gobbled up pretty often.

Words of wisdom from other writers

• Expect rejections; don’t dread them.
• Good stories get rejected every day of the world.
• A rejection slip is your membership card into the universal fellowship of writers (L. Block).
• If you want to be a writer, you’ll need to grow a thick skin.
• Rejection is a part of writing — it goes with the territory.
• A professional writer is just an amateur writer who didn’t give up.

That’s good advice. Rejection, like the uphill pull on a scenic bike ride, is a necessary evil. There’s no way to avoid it unless you refuse the challenge outright, and what sense does that make? Granted, I can’t promise you your story will be accepted if you send it in — but I can promise you it won’t be accepted if you don’t.

Some rejections are better than others

Here’s the worst case: You stroll out to the mailbox on a clear day, remove a skinny envelope that you recognize as one of your SASEs (self-addressed stamped envelopes), and hold it up to the sun. You can see, hiding inside, the outline of a square of paper not much bigger than a business card. When you open the envelope, your suspicion is confirmed. The little slip says something like Dear writer: We’re sorry to inform you that your material does not meet our current needs. The Editors.

Nothing handwritten, no names, no signature. That (unless there’s a paragraph on the back telling you how truly pathetic your writing was) is about as bad — and impersonal — a rejection as you’re likely to get.

Much better is a note, maybe on the publication’s letterhead or maybe on the detached first page of your rejected manuscript, that says something to this effect: Mr. Floyd — We liked your story but must pass on it this time. Please submit to us again, since we’d like to see more of your work. Sincerely, Jane Doe.

This note might be printed or scrawled, but the signature is usually handwritten. Definitely a step in the right direction. If I receive a rejection like this, I try to send Ms. Doe another story immediately, and remind her in my cover letter that she invited me to submit again.

The best rejection of all (though it’s still a rejection) would be something like: Hi John — Good story! The only problem’s the use of technical jargon on page 3. If you could revise that part, we’d be happy to reconsider. Many thanks — Jane.

This kind of note, usually handwritten, is music to the ears. If you’re willing to make the change they suggest, it almost always results in a sale. And to those of you who might be tempted to sniff and raise your chin and say, “I refuse to change my story just because they want me to,” remember that short stories can be sold over and over again. My advice is, make whatever revision they ask for, sell it to this market, and then — when you submit it again to others as a reprint — change it right back to the way you had it at first.

How many is too many?

Nobody likes to be told her baby’s ugly, but let’s face it, not all of them are destined to be the picture on the Huggies package. At what point must we accept that? As a writer, how many rejections should you allow yourself to accumulate before you decide to give up on a story? Or (gasp!) give up on writing? Well, all of us have heard about folks like Grisham and others who received dozens, sometimes hundreds, of rejections before hitting the mother lode. But very honestly, I think it would be hard to get 300 rejections (as F. Scott Fitzgerald supposedly received before selling The Great Gatsby) without entertaining some serious doubts about your future as a writer. Or even your talent as a writer. Creative people have fragile egos anyway.

I think the thing that kept those writers going was probably the same thing that keeps any of us going, if we’re serious about this job/hobby/pastime of ours. It’s the fact that they couldn’t stop writing even if they wanted to. A quote I’ve often heard is, “If you can quit writing, you probably should.”

That would at least stop the rejection letters.