Those Rejection Blues

One of my short stories didn’t make it in a competition recently, and all it seems to take is one teensy weeny rejection for me to think everything I write is utter crap. Writing is such a strange thing – there are no laurels on which to rest; you are only as good as the last thing you wrote, and if that was rejected then forget past success – everything in the entire world is rubbish.

Rejection reverts me into my sulky teenage self – I want to paint the walls black and listen to Pink Floyd.

When I’m in this mood, I am desperate for distractions. I tweet; I youtube old music videos; I research into the tiniest thing; I read. And then when I have nothing written, it is not ‘my’ fault that I didn’t write – it was the distractions what did it! They are to blame, those pesky shiny things just a click away, not me. It’s funny how the subconscious works.

The worst thing about rejection is how everything crashes down, the fragile house of cards that I seem to construct around each story, and then reality whacks me in the face with a soggy slipper. Everything in my life suddenly seems crystal clear, and not in a good way. It paves the way for the inner critic, the Aunt Aggie’s of the world, and hands them a free license and a mega-phone. For a few days I listen in stupefied silence – yes, I can’t write; no, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life; yes, I agree that’s rubbish; no, I don’t have a clue how I’m going to change things. The inner critic will take this chance to have a pop about everything – not just my writing, but the way I look, what I wear – it’s a sort of horribly gleeful internal scourging that is as painful as it sounds.

But then I’ll wake up and look at the world outside the window, the sun and the trees, and think, oh well. That was yesterday. Today is brand new. Anything can happen. And so my first card will be erected, and then another and another, and eventually I’ll have a new house of cards, and a new bit of writing.

Remind me next time to use superglue!

Chirpy Reflection’s Answer to Rejection

Rejection: My story sucks the big one.
Chirpy Reflection: Now come on! (And darling, don’t revert to teen speak when you are in your thirties, it isn’t becoming.) There could be many reasons why your story wasn’t right this time, and it isn’t necessarily that your story… ahem… that your story isn’t the best it can be. But use this time – do you have doubts about your story? If so work on them! If you are satisfied that this story is the best ever then send it out again.

Rejection: My life is a big fat pile of poo.
Chirpy Reflection: No it isn’t!
Rejection: Yes it is.
Chirpy Reflection: No it… actually let’s not go there. A rejection isn’t the end of the world. The sky is still blue, the birds still sing. Understand it is not personal. I know you are eager to get on and sometimes it feels like life is on hold (while the years tick on, how does that work eh?) but everyone who is anyone goes through this stage. Look at JK Rowling…
Rejection: Please, please don’t tell me Harry Potter was rejected umpteen times before it was taken on. I know that story. I’ve injected that story to my veins. Please, no more. Leave me to wallow.
Chirpy Reflection: No can do I’m afraid. The lovely JK isn’t the only author to be rejected a few times before being published. Look darling, it happens. It means you are on your way. It doesn’t make everything in life a turd during the process, trust me.

Rejection: Why don’t they like me?
Chirpy Reflection: Honey, what did I say up there? It’s not personal, sweetheart, they don’t know you. If they met you they’d think you were the bee's knees. As it is, revise your query. Read it over again – anything you’d change? Now is your chance – take it with both hands! If you believe in it as it is, jump back on the merry-go-round. Besides, the right place for your story is out there. Make sure everything is ready for when that day arrives.

Rejection: I hate waiting, I hate it!
Chirpy Reflection (solemnly): The best things in life are worth waiting for. And don’t throw your pen at me.