Finally. It happened: they rejected me.
A part of the book world saw my work, tossed it into my chest, and pushed me away. We mean the best when we say this, but we have no time for this, even though it seems it took you a lot of time and a lot of hard work. Please accept our generic apology and best of luck moving forward with no feedback.
I get it. A company doesn’t have time for a nobody, a 23-year-old graduate like me. Before you go shouting out “no! You’re special! You’re not nobody,” don’t worry. I think I’m special too. Comes with humanity’s package deal. Also, read this article, and you’ll see I think it’s wonderful to be an ordinary “nobody,” at least as the world defines it.
Anyhow, with all that talk, I should let you in on how this rejection happened:
Sweat wets my hairline and lingers on my back. Slipping my arms into my puffy black coat, I leave my ballet class and fast-walk home. Whatever reason I have to get back with urgency, I will soon forget. Placing my thumb on my phone’s home button, it unlocks and opens up to my email.
I didn’t remember using that earlier. Why was it pulled up? I checked.
My mentor had sent me an email. Nice, I thought. Wait. Below it, I had an email from a publishing company. The only company I sent my picture book’s manuscript to. The only ocean I felt comfortable dipping my toes into.
They rejected you, I told myself, still walking down that same large, yellow hallway. They rejected you, I said, but that’s okay. You’ll get feedback, since they’ll like it enough to comment, and then you can make it better. You can resubmit.
I passed by windows that peered into other classes of people swimming, shooting hoops, and shuffling to block spikes, but my face stayed on my phone, staring. I clicked and watched the letter unfold.
In half of a second, my heart fluttered and I thought, maybe they’ll accept it. Maybe they liked it.
And then I read the words I am sorry to inform you. . .
Scanning the text, I searched for what they liked. What they didn’t like. What I could do better. Nothing. All I had was a cookie-cutter letter. Tasteless.
I exited the building. Gray clouds covered the sky. The weather had harmonized with me. As much as the wind blew, my disappointment stayed stapled into my skin. All the reminders that this was one first step toward success, that success wasn’t about publication, that if it came down to it, I’d go out on the street and hand my books out for free—all those reminders didn’t make me happy.
When I walked into my apartment, I passed my husband, Josh, on the couch, went to our bedroom, and sat behind the far side of our bed. Staring at the ceiling, with my feet curved onto the mattress ledge, helped. A little.
I messaged my writing group, feeling the obligation to let them know, and then I put my phone away. What was I doing with life? Who knew. Trying, I guess.
At some point, Josh came in and entered my wave pool of emotions, until it became as steady as a lazy river. I knew I would move forward. I had planned for this. I had my next steps lined up. For that moment, though, I just let myself be human. I let myself feel bummed about someone not wanting my book in their store. I let it happen because burying it would cause further grief later, when the floods washed all things in the dirt back up.
This past week, I hit a milestone. My first rejection.
The more I’ve thought about it, the more glad I’ve felt that the company said no.
Loads of people, like me, experience this rejection. I’d rather be one of a million, so I can be there for the million, than be one in a million and be detached from the million.
I’m looking forward to submitting to other places and finding my way in this wild, wild world. The details won’t turn out how I expect, but I believe all will turn out good, and that works for me.
Read MRC 