Why Didn’t That Hurt? Building Rejection Armor Through a Body of Work

I opened my email this morning while sipping coffee and writing our family’s weekly commitments on the dry erase board that commands our lives. I saw “Submissions” in a subject line and clicked. It was a rejection (what’s new?!).

I stayed up late last night polishing a creative nonfiction piece before submitting. I thought the rejection was for that. I thought, “At least they’re quick,” as if complimenting an executioner. Then I realized the rejection was from an agency I queried for my debut weeks ago. Then I realized the rejection didn’t hurt like it used to. Then I realized that’s weird. What changed?

A Glimmer of Hope

Since the beginning of the year, I’ve shifted my focus from breathlessly trying to get my first book published to getting some writing credentials to my name (maybe because I’m an absolute, unproven nobody, rejections abound?). At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. What’s actually happened is that I’ve created a body of work and understood what kind of writer I am.

I started submitting to literary magazines and writing contests, at first breaking off hunks of my completed manuscript that worked as short stories. I got an acceptance on the fourth one. (You can read “To Let You Know the Depths of My Love for You” in Teach. Write. Literary Journal.)

When I read the email, I was so used to disappointment, I girded myself for the rejection.

Her: I like the story very much …

Me: Come on, where’s the “but”?

Her: … and would like to use it in the next edition of Teach. Write.

Me: Screams! Screams! Shouts of joy! Elation!

It renewed my sense that this whole endeavor was possible. And the great thing was I could write my way out of it.

Building a Body of Work

I worked on my first manuscript for 15 years. Hell, I’m still working on it, slicing and dicing, cutting down to bone. After about 40 agent rejections, I realized the literary world wasn’t going to effortlessly open its arms to me. I told myself maybe this wasn’t the right first book, took all that I learned of what agents are looking for, and started on my second.

But full-length historical fiction manuscripts take, you know, time. I started hunting for submission opportunities that coincided with:

• What I already had in the first manuscript; or

• What I was already working on in the second

The exercise showed me I don’t just have one book (and another mess in the making), I have lots and lots of stories. I have chapters, scenes, paragraphs I’m really proud of. I have the cutting room floor.

And I have Chill Subs. And The Freelance Writing Network. I have fucking Instagram. I have all these little houses my stories might live in. I have a spreadsheet to keep track. I have more rejections, but I have stumbled on my body of work. I see (gasp) that I write on certain themes:

• Mothers

• Plants

• Survival

• Medicine

I find magazines seeking submissions on these themes. I find fellowships and contests tailored to the type of author I am. I submit something every week. I no longer have all my eggs in one basket.

When a rejection comes now, it doesn’t hurt as much. I’ve got my armor on and another arrow in my quiver to try again next time.

How Submissions Changed the Way I Write

I am a maximalist. When I completed my first manuscript, it clocked in at 140,000 words (ha!). I trimmed to the upper limits of what Google said a historical fiction novel could be. That got me around 123,000 (haha!).

I heard zilch from the first round and way-too-aspirational agents whom I queried (hahaha!). I revised my query letter again and again. It made me realize what I actually wanted the book to be about. I became ruthless. I cut down to 104,000 (ok, girl).

I started submitting short stories. And reading short stories again (how I missed you!). I turned entire chapters into flash fiction. I realized what in a story was just for me and what the story could live without.

I’ve got my manuscript down to 97,000 (and I will cut more). I’m hitting my marks on pages 5, 10, 30, 50, so when I query agents, something consequential is actually happening in the writing sample (imagine!).

Done is Never Finished

In another work published in Teach. Write., Laura Anella Johnson reflects on the death of her poetry mentor and the lessons he left behind.

You breathe thank-You’s

for advice, clear or mysterious—

“Get in the poem.” (Inhale)

“Don’t get caught in the poetic stream.” (Exhale)

“This line doesn’t tell me anything.” (Inhale)

for a friend who kept teaching after graduation–

“Write poetry in every line.”(Exhale)

“Your poem is in your last two stanzas.” (Inhale)

“Maybe let that go.” (Exhale)

I think I will brand, “Your poem is in your last two stanzas,” on the back of my hands. It’s not until I get to the end that I realize what I set out to do in the first place. Thankfully in writing, unlike in life, I get to go back, revise, dump what I learned into the beginning and make it better.

I’m doing it now. You won’t miss what’s cut.