Rejections

A good friend, a talented writer, has started sending out more stories this year. They always submitted their work; so far this year they are submitting more regularly. And as most of us who submit our fiction for publication know, they’re getting back rejections.

Rejections are hard. Hell, submitting work is hard. For a lot of us, Imposter Syndrome lies in ambush, ready to snap down like a giant steel mousetrap on our fingers just as we’re about the click Send. How dare we send out that mess of a story? What makes us think we can write? Why would anyone be interested in something so badly done, so trivial, so silly, so cliche? Doubt and anxiety make us question our story and worse, our worth as human beings. Intellectually, we know those last two are unrelated. Emotionally, when it comes to writing, one is wrapped around the other like a morning glory vine twined around a rose stalk.

In all modesty, I can say I’m an expert on rejections, because I have collected a lot of them, mostly for my short fiction. The main reason for this is because shorter lengths aren’t my strength, and I don’t write many short stories, so improvement doesn’t happen as quickly. Another reason is simply that most work gets rejected. It’s statistical.

It’s tempting to give magazine, anthology and book editors some kind of malevolent power, as if they are sadists, or gatekeepers who take unholy glee in rejecting our work. This, like a conspiracy theory, is an attempt to exert some measure of control over a process out of our control. I’ve met a few editors now, I’ve had some acceptances, and, as I said, I got a lot of rejections, and I don’t think the power-mad gatekeeper scenario fits. I think editors want to find, and accept, good stories. I think the reasons stories get rejected are myriad, and even sometimes out of the editor’s hands (an example, budget).

Some reasons for rejections are obvious to the writer and some are part of the editing/publishing process that we writers aren’t usually aware of. Let’s look at a few different reasons.

The story isn’t ready yet. You wrote it. You revised it. You workshopped it and revised it again. You gave it to a couple of trusted readers, and you revised it again. You polished it and you sent it off, to get a rejection. Maybe more than one. Take a look at the story again. Some time has passed now; you yourself will read it differently. Probably, you’ll see one or two places where links can be strengthened, a description can be clarified, or a motivation made stronger. Revise it again. (Note, don’t revise it every time. There are other reasons for rejections.)

Here’s a trick; pretend you’re the editor for the magazine, and read it as them. See if you as an editor think it works.

Don’t send it back to the magazine that rejected it unless they specifically asked for a rewrite.

Similar stories are already in the pipeline. You wrote an emotionally honest, touching, and graceful story about a person returning to the home of an ailing parent to care for them, and work out their difficult relationship. It’s a beautiful story. What you don’t know is that the editor, who is wiping away a tear as they read yours, has already accepted two other adult-child-comes-home-to-ailing-parent stories. Or, your witty present-tense story would be the fourth one in an anthology, and that’s not the rhythm or style the editor wants to emphasize. You never know what you’re competing with. If there’s a personal comment like, “Beautifully written but not for us,” take that at face value. (Especially the “beautifully written” part.) Send the story on.

It’s really just not for them. Years and years ago I sent one of my short stories to a magazine that wanted stories of magic that “painted outside the lines.” My story had a protagonist who challenged societal norms and prevailed. I thought she was painting outside the lines. I got a nice rejection: “We enjoyed this but it’s not for us.” When the magazine came out online I looked it up, to discover that 99% of the work was experimental. Like, the story is told from the point of view of a coffee cup, or something. (Okay, not really.) The “outside the lines” meant mostly they wanted experimental prose. My work is conventional, not experimental. Their rejection was perfectly accurate.

The editor doesn’t get it. Seriously. Editors are smart people, but even smart people don’t comprehend everything all the time. Maybe they just don’t understand what you’re doing with that nonlinear timeline. Or the emotional levels are so layered and subtle they’ve missed it. Or the narrative voice you’ve chosen jars them. They don’t get it. They’re not the place for that story–so move it on.

By the way, do not email them back explaining the story. It’s pointless. They don’t get it and they’re not going to get it.

This particular reaction must be a problem for BIPOC writers, who are trying to spotlight their cultures and their storytelling rhythms and elements. In this case, “not getting it” perpetuates the stranglehold of white storytellers on the marketplace. I am flummoxed about how to solve that, but it seems to me it falls to the editors to educate themselves so that they recognize that a story that doesn’t tap each and every dot in the Standard Western Story pattern is still a great story.

It’s not the editor, it’s the publisher. The editor loves your story and brings it to the editorial meeting, sends it up the chain, whatever. Unbeknownst to you, however, something in the story doesn’t mesh with the publisher’s identity. It could be anything. Your story is neutral on a social issue that the publisher cares strongly about. The publisher’s funding source comes largely from a economic sector the story gave a critique of. A random character made fun of Starbuck’s. You don’t know and the editor might not know either. Or, again, budget. The upcoming issue now has funds for ten stories, not twelve, and yours comes back to you. Okay. Send it forward.

I want to end with a few do’s and don’ts. First, the dont’s.

Don’t write back to the editor. I don’t think there’s even a need to send a “thank you” email to the editor. Electronic submissions threw open the floodgates for writers by making submitting work cheap and convenient. Editors are flooded. Even with slush pile readers, work gets sent up the chain to the editor, and they’re still swamped.

But really, really, really don’t write back to the editor if you are hurt or mad. The editor didn’t get the story, couldn’t use the story, or didn’t like the story. Fine. You are not going to persuade them otherwise. Don’t explain to them about how they are crushing your creative spirit. First of all, they’re not doing that. You are.

Editors read hundreds of stories. It’s possible–even probable–that they don’t necessarily remember yours right now. In fact, if a slush reader rejected yours with a one-paragraph synopsis of why, the editor sending the rejection may not have read it. I guarantee you they’ll remember you if you send an angry email. They will remember you as someone unprofessional, someone they probably don’t want to work with.

Don’t trash them on Twitter or social media. For the same reasons as the “Don’t” above, don’t take to social media to tell everyone about how mean the editor was. You know who’s on Twitter? Lots of editors, lots of future editors (writers who may get tapped to guest-edit or put together an anthology), and lots of agents. Even if you use restraint and don’t name the editor, those people will see you on Twitter being a person who’s hard to work with. It’s a small community.

Don’t quit. It’s one story, one editor, one magazine or book publisher. Do not “self-reject.” Email, call, or Zoom your writing friends and kvetch about how frustrating it is to get rejected. We’ll commiserate because we’ve been there. Go for a walk or cry if you need to. And then start your next story, because you’re good.

Things to do:

Evaluate. If you got a personal comment from the editor, evaluate it. I sent a story to C.C. Finlay of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I got a personalized rejection from him. “Interesting story,” he wrote, “but I couldn’t tell quite where I was in the beginning few paragraphs.” The story moves through time and space, but I took a look at his comment, and changed the beginning. Four months later I sold the story to an anthology. (Note that I didn’t sell it to him; he did not ask to see the story again.)

Read a sample of the publication before you submit. Your local library may have recent copies of print publications, or can acquire one through inter-library loans. Check out at least one issue if you can. Online publications often have a sample for free, or an archive you can browse. This is the best way to dodge the “it’s not for us” rejection. In fact, you may realize that they are not for you, and you wouldn’t be that happy having a story in their publication.

If possible, volunteer as a slush reader, or review stories in a workshop setting. Reading a lot of short stories with an editorial eye yourself is the fastest way to learn to improve your own work. About the seventeenth time you sigh and think to yourself, “This story doesn’t start until Page 3!” you might decide to take a look at your own work. Does the story kick into gear on page 3?

Listen to editors. If you attend conferences in person and/or online, seek out editors panels. They’ll share a lot.

Keep writing. Yes, this is the flip of Don’t Quit. Keep working, keep stretching, keep improving. You have wonderful stories to tell. Keep telling them, and keep sending them out into the world. They will–some if not all–find homes.