Rejected, For The Very First Time

On getting my first fiction rejection letter

I’m just a girl, standing in front of you, trying to publish a book.

Like a first kiss, losing your virginity, seeing the ocean or your first steam locomotive for the very first time, you’ll never forget your first rejection letter.

Once, while driving back to the city from a summer writing workshop on Long Island, my writer friend entertained me by telling me about her 200+ rejections on the same novel. I was not surprised, having heard similar stories from my writing group. Indeed, writers wear rejections as badges of honor — “I got rejected 448 times before I got an acceptance!”

I was prepared for rejection. I even made a spreadsheet with 200+ rows so that I could enter in all of my anticipated rejections before that one, glorious reply. I know that I didn’t spend the last decade of my life writing for a living. I spent that last decade in the trenches, training to be a surgeon.

But my first rejection still stings.

You, a wise, established writer, will laugh at me, because this is my first fiction rejection.

“Be prepared!” You’ll warn.

“The first of many!” You’ll scoff.

I know, I know. I’ve heard it before.

The agent, I feel, let me down gently. In fact, I was kind of thrilled to get a response at all, considering how many people never even hear back after multiple queries and inquiries.

She said, “I think you’re on your way there, but I just don’t feel passionate enough about the project at this time to offer to work with you. Publishing is very subjective, and I encourage you to seek other opinions.”

Like a letter from an old lover, I tore these sentences apart and tried to read between the lines. Does she love me? Does she hate me? Is there potential or am I just wasting my time?

Also like a letter from an old lover, dissecting the message is completely non-productive. It’s better to toss it into a drawer and forget about it.

Or should I print it out and frame it? After all, my first rejection means that I finally wrote something; I finally sent my baby out there to seek validation and though it wasn’t a positive interaction, and least my baby’s been read. It’s been seen.

It’s not that I’m not used to rejection. I admit that I have generally been lucky. The lines between luck and hard work blur a bit here. Once I commented on how lucky I was to get the job that I have, and an older colleague replied, “It wasn’t luck, they knew what they were getting.” —implying that my reputation preceded me. Usually I get into the things I apply for. My scientific abstracts have been accepted every single time. When I plan a party, everyone has a blast. But when I really think about it, I think that my memories of acceptance have just outshone my nightmares of rejection. For every college I was accepted to, three rejections. For every medical school acceptance, five rejections. For every residency, ten. For every fellowship, twenty.

Rejected! Time and again, so much so that I’d forgotten; rejections are just background noise to my existence.

I only remember, and people only see, the acceptances though. When they see your New York Times Bestseller on the bookshelf, they don’t really know that you submitted that manuscript five hundred times. My recent motto is to turn “I’ve failed” into “I’ve learned”. So today I am starting on my next novel.

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