Essays

This essay first appeared on Anthony V. Toscano's excellent web site, Spilled Beans

HOW TO FACE REJECTION

copyright 1999 by Nora M. Mulligan

First, you nurture hopes. A few good rationalizations about the number of books being published and the abysmal quality of so many of those books (compared to your masterpiece) should suffice.

Then you do some "market research." You get a market guide, the bigger the better, and peruse it, making marks in the margins and on index cards, looking for the right match. All the while, you're visualizing your book in that publisher's imprint, your picture on the back cover, praises culled from prestigious reviews of your words.

You put together your package: the carefully crafted letter, the finely-honed synopsis, the first three chapters, the all-important return envelope. It's a large envelope, to hold your whole package, but in your heart you hope that you'll never see that envelope again. You visualize instead the trim business envelope you'll receive, begging you to send the rest of the book.

You send out the package with a pang, as if you were watching your child turn away from you for the first time. You go home and enter the information in your homemade docket: the name, the date you sent it, where you sent it, and what was in the package.

Then you wait. A week passes, then two. You sneak looks at the docket, telling yourself not to be an idiot, reminding yourself that the guidelines said six to eight weeks at a minimum.

You know to the minute when the mail is delivered every day. Before you open the mailbox, you remember and reinvent your childhood rituals: if you hold your breath before you open the box, something good will be in it. You make the same kind of bargains with God you made in elementary school ("God, if you'll do this for me, I swear I'll go to church every day, I'll never say another mean thing, I'll be a changed person, really, I swear!").

Then one day you see the large envelope sticking out the top of the mailbox. It's not your manuscript. It can't be. It's a magazine, or a proxy form, a fund-raising mailing from the local hospital. It isn't even yours; the mail carrier inadvertently delivered your neighbor's envelope to your mailbox.

The envelope grows larger and larger as you approach. Now it glows. You know it can be seen by people in the next block, the next town. There it is. You recognize your envelope.

Is it significantly heavier than it was all those weeks ago? Maybe all isn't lost. Maybe there's still hope. Maybe they sent this back with extensive directions on how they want you to send the whole manuscript.

You wait until you're in your home, with the door locked and the curtains drawn. You don't want any witnesses.

All right. You'll open it, but you won't read it.

You glance quickly in the envelope. The letter isn't handwritten. It appears to be signed. Maybe it's not so bad. You lift it out gingerly, delaying the inevitable as long as you can.

They spelled your name correctly. You're pathetically grateful they got your name right. That has to be a good sign, doesn't it?

The letter is long. Well, it's four paragraphs long. Too short to be a litany of abuse, too long to be a brief, cruel dismissal. You hold off a second more. There's still hope, you remind yourself.

The first words in the body of the letter are "We're sorry." Your eyes blur with sudden tears. No need to read further, is there? You know perfectly well the rest of the sentence isn't going to be " . . . that we can only offer you a million dollars for this wonderful book." You can't believe you even thought it might possibly say that.

You drop the package on the table. You stagger away and collapse onto the couch, still holding the letter.

You skim the rest of the letter. Yes, it's a rejection, just as you feared.

You drop the letter. They're right, of course. What ever made you think you could write anything? What a waste of money, sending out that stupid package. You should burn the chapters. You should delete the whole book from your computer. You should drop kick the computer out the window while you're at it, making sure it lands on your market guide. If you had the energy, that's what you would do.

You steer around the envelope for the rest of the day. Occasionally you pick up the rejection letter, by accident, and find yourself reading it. The first time you drop it again, as if it burned you. The second time you actually read the words and discover a spelling mistake. This makes you ridiculously self-righteous for ten whole minutes. The next time you read it, you notice that they didn't say you were a total jerk, incapable of putting two sentences together. The next time you read it, the words "we wish you luck with other publishers" leap out at you. You think how kindhearted these people are, to wish you luck. Maybe they didn't hate it after all. Maybe they just couldn't fit it in their list this time.

You wake up the next morning and reread the three chapters and the synopsis. You decide that they are, in fact, the best thing since sliced bread. You remind yourself of the number of rejections famous books got before they were published. You find the index card on which you listed the publishers who might be a good match for your book. You find the letter of enclosure on your computer. You change the name, address and date. You make up another package, and head off to the post office.