Reflection on rejection

A few weeks ago, I sent the first few chapters of my book out into the world, to some really kind agents I met awhile back. (They really were kind. I’m serious.) They responded fast, asking for more. 

I confess I couldn’t deliver the rest immediately. I needed to savor that in-between time, those precious seconds before you’re dealt the cold hard facts, that dreamy state when you can still believe that anything is possible, because there’s no evidence to the contrary, like those giddy moments – I’m so going to quit my job travel the world build a house twice as obnoxious as Tom Brady’s, just before they read someone else’s Powerball number.  

After three frenetic days and nights of dreaming, editing, doubting, more editing, I re-entered reality.  One morning, half-dressed, over-caffeinated, already late for work, I dashed off a quick email, attached the whole manuscript, and hit send. I turned off the computer, ran a comb through my hair, scooted off to my day job, and did my best to forget what I’d just done. I know about odds. I knew to not get my hopes up.  

I decided to tell no one what I’d done. I decided to take a week off from looking at my email. But I can’t keep my mouth shut and as for not checking email, well, how will I know what houses I can’t afford if I don’t get my daily update from realtor.com? 

  

A work colleague: “My friend so-and-so won the insert name of prestige writing award here and hasn’t been able to get a book published since. It’s tough out there. I will pray for you.” 

My parents: “That’s great. You probably won’t get published. Don’t think about it anymore. What else did you do this week?”

A friend: “They are going to love it. How could they not love your book?” 

I hit the gym a lot. Visited Barnes and Noble and picked up a few writing magazines that had stories on agents looking for submissions. 

This past Wednesday, I met an old friend for coffee. She is in my book. Well, parts of her are in my book. We’ve been friends since seventh grade. I told her I’d submitted my manuscript and that I hadn’t heard back yet. She said: “Of course you haven’t. They’re working out the details now on how much to offer you. Where are you going to have the book-signing party?” 

For a few seconds, I dared to imagine. I told her Union Station, which is one of the settings in my book.

 

Twenty-four hours later, I got the rejection.

 

I read it quickly, then breathed out in relief.  Relief?  Yup, relief, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because the waiting was over? Maybe because I’m not quite ready to imagine a life even slightly different from the one I have now?  

A few seconds later the stomach ache began.  I thought about pouring myself a big glass of wine and spending the rest of the day and night in front of the television. I mulled that over for a long time, while I clicked back and forth between Facebook, a couple of news sites, my email. My feet wouldn’t stop bouncing, and I realized that sitting still was not what I needed. I changed my clothes and went to the gym. 

I hopped on the elliptical and turned on my shuffle: Echo and the Bunnymen’s “The Cutter” came on, a song about getting edited, and that frustration and anger that boils up sometimes. I’m “not just another drop in the ocean” either, I remember thinking. Next up was Springsteen’s “Thunder Road.” Did I really want to become someone who was comfortable hiding “‘neath the covers and studying my pain?” 

Then came the Raspberries' “Go All the Way,” which is SO not about writing but got me through a 20-mile run just a week ago and a 20-miler two weeks before that, even though last year at this time I could barely make it through seven miles, and Jesus Christ God help me I might be unstoppable because I’ve got another 20-miler this weekend and then two marathons next month and then who knows what I’ll be tempted to conquer after that.

Endorphins highs are the best.

Last night I told my mom and dad I finally got that rejection letter I’d been somewhat expecting.

My mother asked if I was okay. I replied I was almost fine. After all, it was a long shot and I knew it.

My dad said, “You finished a book. That’s something. You’ve done more than most.”

“It’s not enough,” I said.

Later, I called my daughter and told her too. She asked me what I was going to do next. I told her that after I got home from the gym Thursday night I googled author rejections, and read all about tons of famous authors who got rejected multiple times before making it. I said my plan was to take a tiny break from the book just to get a little more editorial distance, then return strong. The agents had given me some gorgeous, concrete feedback and I wanted to work on revising some sections.   

My daughter said she was glad to hear I wasn’t giving up. I half-joked that I wouldn’t be a good role model if I gave up, right? She laughed. I did too, sort of.