Rejection is Real. But I Keep Writing.

An encouragement to stay in the arena.

Photo by Оксана Квеквескири on Unsplash

Oh. You weren’t kidding. You seasoned writers and coaches and editors who are continually reminding us new, wide-eyed novice writers that rejection is real. I didn’t realize just how much I doubted you.

I mean, in theory, I accepted your words as important guidelines to remember as I embarked on the journey to publishing in literary journals. If we were in a face-to-face conversation I would have nodded, with serious and humble acknowledgment that what you were sharing was very important.

But I now realize that underneath my surface-level agreement was optimism that either I wouldn’t experience the same level of rejection or that I would experience a lot of rejection but I wouldn’t let it get to me. I would keep marching on toward my publishing goals.

It’s getting to me.

Today, I received my twenty-first hard pass since my first dip into literary journal publishing. Twenty-four but my coach tells me three of them were encouraging “nos.” They like the piece. They just aren’t publishing the piece. I am learning to cling to any sign of hope I can.

And, after these nearly two dozen rejections, I would like to announce rejection is real. And it doesn’t feel great.

But. I am still marching.

Perhaps that is the most important element in all of the sage advice I have sought out and read on my writing journey: keep marching towards the goal. And by marching, I mean writing. And submitting. Writing and submitting.

I am motivated to do this for several reasons. First, although I have been writing for a decade, my fear of rejection has kept me from even stepping into the publishing arena, a place I would like to be.

As Brene Brown quotes, and quotes often, an excerpt from Teddy Roosevelt’s speech “Citizenship in the Republic” from which she named her book Daring Greatly, we can’t expect any success if we don’t jump into the arena in the first place. And here, by the arena, I mean submitting to journals.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong [person] stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the [person] who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs; who comes short again and again, [Read: Rejection] because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends [her]self in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if [she] fails, at least fails while daring greatly. . .”

For many years I didn’t even park in the parking lot of the arena. I drove to a nearby hillside and looked at the arena from a distance, through binoculars. Then, a few years ago I drove closer to the arena and camped out in a little coffee shop called “WordPress” and with the help of my sister-in-law, started a blog.

Still not in the arena.

Baby steps.

Then, I drove to the arena. But I took some friends with me. They walked with me to the large doors that led onto the field, cheering and clapping as I took my steps into the center of it, ready to more formally release my words out into the ether.

At this point it is imperative to pause and note the power of community when we head to the arena. I have many significant voices in my life, cheerleaders, who say “You’ve got this!” “Keep going!” “We’ll bring wine when you get rejected!”

These people are important.

Although the actual daring greatly must be done from one’s own agency, it doesn’t mean we can’t bring people with us. My friends, my parents, mastermind group, and coach didn’t carry me in. They didn’t write the words for me. They didn’t berate me for how slowly I was moving towards my publishing goals. They were there for my first steps, and continue to go with me to the space and cheer as I continue to stay in the arena.

But, even when I can see my supporters over there in the entryway, it can be lonely in the arena, writing, submitting, and reading rejection emails. We writers know this intimately. I imagine a stand-up comic in front of a skeptical audience or a gladiator waiting for lions to be released or a rookie pitcher coming to the mound for the first time and as each of these figures turns to the crowd there might be flowers or tomatoes thrown at their feet.

There might be loud boos or simply apathy. But they stay in the space.

It is interesting that even if flowers are thrown or encouragement shouted, it is usually the tomatoes that are remembered. I have received two “yes’s” from literary magazines, for which I jumped up and down and called all my cheerleaders. But it is difficult to remember those yes’s.

Perhaps I should bring wins with me into the arena, stake them in the ground on signposts as reminders of what I hope to accomplish and why I am still standing here. Or, after short breaks, why I keep returning.

I applaud we writers who continue to come back again and again, entering the arena regardless of the rejections. I applaud we who stay to throw our words into the ether.

I applaud we who are in the arena.