Aw, shit. Rejection. The dreaded R word that probably should be spelled with four letters, it sucks so bad.
Micronodular cirrhosis developing in a transplanted liver with chronic rejection (Photo credit: bc the path) Writing rejection doesn’t suck as bad as organ transplant rejection. See? There is a bright side!
It happens to every writer at some point in time (and if it doesn’t, I bow down to you, and also will be creating a voodoo doll in your likeness later today–send me a pic).
Anyway, I’ve gotten them, and will continue to do so as long as I keep writing. I’ve accepted it. Sure, it still hurts, much like the country music someone just turned on as I sit in the lobby of my five-year-old’s sports class.
[Seriously, people? Are you trying to tell me I shouldn’t hang around while the boy runs his crazies out? The classic rock you played the last few times was tolerable, if not preferred. This is down-right cruel. Mental note–head phones next time.]
Back to rejection. It comes in all forms, and when I get past the anal-sex-with-no-lube burn of having my dreams dashed I can often see the positive side of rejection. Here is my opportunity to add that scene I’d been considering. Here’s my chance to employ some of the new editing techniques I’ve picked up in the four months I waited to hear back. Now I can work out the suggestions recommended by editors kind enough to take the time to send along their notes. Now I can rock this.
Sure, not every rejection is a lengthy letter on things the almighty publishers think should be changed. They don’t always tell you what sucked about your precious bundle. Sometimes they’re form rejects. But even those are an opportunity to tweak your tale into something better than it was before. Shake things up. Get a few more beta reads. Sell your soul to the Devil for a magic pen that writes real goodish. It’s a second chance to make your beautiful baby even prettier before she goes out into the world. Stick a freakin’ bow in her hair and put on her frou-frou party dress before you promenade her through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.
[It was all of my bad analogies, wasn’t it?]
Your glass can still be half full with Jack Daniels, friends.
Me? Mine has a good mouthful in it, and even a chip of ice still floating around as my latest N-O is tossed back on the drawing board. I’m gonna make it sing way better than the dude currently whining on this f#%@^9 radio station.
I’m gonna rock it.
Cheers to second chances, all!