OK, So…Rejection Totally Sucks

Being an aspiring writer is a lot like being the nerdy girl in She’s All That. Some day you just know you’ll find your Freddie Prinze, Jr. to come in and take off your glasses and let down your ponytail and suddenly everyone will be clamoring to get a seat at your table. Your books will sell by the millions (move over, Nora Roberts!), and you will bask forever in the glow of your fans and the royalty checks that keep pouring in.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

But seriously folks. This gig is kind of tough. Especially for people like me, who have zero social media presence and only a small group of people willing and able to read what I write and spread the word. But I’m doing my homework. I’m staking out my little corner of the internet. I’m also writing my ass off. Four projects currently, which might seem like a lot, but I knock a little off each of them every week.

I am also researching agents, which feels a bit like wading into an alligator pond and trying to make friends (there’s that insecurity rearing its ugly head). See, I suffer a bit from social anxiety, and shyness, and just plain old awkwardness. You know that talent some people have of saying the exact thing that will bring a conversation to a screeching halt? Yeah. I have that.

But I will find her (or him), and maybe they will represent me, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a published book out there that does not require me to format and market it. At least, that’s the dream. Until that day comes, my poor books have only me to champion them, and in that vein I’ve been sending out feelers to reviewers and other sites that market books written by struggling indie authors. Which is awesome, because there are these magical beings called “readers” out there, and I hear that having a lot of them gives you super powers or something. I’m checking into it.

So last weekend I sat down and sent out some forms and emails to about half a dozen sites in the hopes that one of them might find my work interesting enough to read and write about. I mean, I’ve gotten some pretty good feedback (some even from strangers, which is cool cause I know they don’t care whether or not I cry), and I figured my writing is decent enough to put me a cut above people who are just starting out. I realize this isn’t glowing self-praise, but I live in fear of becoming arrogant. Probably an unfounded fear, but it’s a real one all the same.

Since this all happened only a week ago, I didn’t expect much. I figured I’d wait a month or two, and then face the slew of rejections with stoicism and a dogged determination to move forward. But then, on Wednesday, February the 1st, 2017, I received the following email:

Hi Katia

We are going to pass this time

Thanks

Followed by a first name and nothing else. No subject. No feedback. Nothing but a tiny thumbnail logo to let me know which site thought my work was not good enough for them. And suddenly everything I’ve heard or read about the crushing feeling of having your work dismissed, often with nothing but a handful of words, became real. And it fell on me like a ton of bricks. I’m almost ashamed to think of it now, let alone write it, but I can console myself with the fact that not a damn person reads my blog except me (ha ha, gallows humor, ha ha). But if we as writers are sworn to look for truth in our work, then I suppose I have to say: I fucking lost it.

I cried. For three days, I cried. I told my husband I was garbage. A lot. I threatened to remove my novellas from Amazon and permanently delete every damn document on my computer, including my backups. I said I might as well finally start fixing up the house and playing all the video games I don’t have time for anymore, cause I sure wasn’t going to spend my time writing. I said I might as well die, because the world sure wouldn’t miss me. Yes, I was being a dramatic idiot. What can I say? I’m a writer. All us creative types have some drama in our lives, even if it doesn’t come out of hiding all that often. It has to be there, because our minds dream up new worlds and people, with all their own thoughts and range of emotions, every single day. That’s my excuse, anyway. It may not be a good one, but it’s what I’ve got.

Anyway. I’m getting better. But I do have a few things to say.

To my husband: I’m sorry. You are a saint of a man (and I’m also sorry the effing Patriots won the effing Superbowl. As a Dolphins fan, he loathes them, as any good Dolphins fan should) and I am so happy to have you. You have been my number one fan and supporter, and you are what gives me the soul to write anything at all.

To my friends and family, who buy my books even though they probably wouldn’t if I was some unknown writer: thank you all so much. I’ve made less than $50 so far, but it’s all from you guys, and it means the world to me.

And to She From The Site That Shall Not Be Named, well…I got nothing for you. I won’t say anything mean, because there is really no call for that. My work didn’t impress you, end of story. Also, this is the internet, and it could come back to bite me in the ass. But I will not say thank you, either, as if this has been some valuable life lesson that will somehow make me better. It was just a thing that happened, and it really sucked, and it still sucks. But I will go on, and I will continue to do what I love the most, and maybe, just maybe, someone out there will like what I do enough to give me a shot.

I suppose that’s all. I’ll go on now with some hope in my heart and my passion for writing, which may not seem like much to some, but for a writer it’s really all that matters. Well, that and all the story ideas, outlines, and drafts I was never really in a million years going to delete. I’m not that dramatic.