Rejectionee
The email arrives. It's the one you've been waiting for since you sent your manuscript to the literary agent two months ago.
You stare at your inbox, feeling like you might throw up (maybe you do a little) because you know it's a rejection. It has to be. The agent would have picked up the phone and called if it wasn't.
Even worse, you know it's going to be another form rejection. Now you really feel like you have no freakin' idea what you're doing. No direction. Nada.
The message sits, unopened. You're too afraid to touch your mouse, fearful you might accidentally open the email. Should such a heinous thing occur and you haven't actually thrown up yet, you will at that point. You know it.
And so it begins. Another waiting game, this time with yourself. How long will you hold out? You're not sure, but you try.
Dishes need to be done, so you busy yourself with that. Laundry, you do that too. Kids, dogs, cats--you attend to everyone's needs. Two hours go by, and your email might as well have H1N1 the way you're avoiding it.
You think about your manuscript. There was that one part you just knew you should have changed before sending it. That must be the reason for the (still unopened) rejection. You break open the manuscript and make the change.
There. That's better.
Well, you think it makes you feel better, that it explains away your problems.
It doesn't.
You make another change. Then another. Then another. Now you're overcompensating, oversimplifying the reason for the rejection, overthinking everything because you need some type of validation that the "problem" can be "fixed" with a few keystrokes and a bit more oomph in your creativity. This may not be the case, but what more can you do? You feel powerless except for the one thing you have power over: your writing.
Twenty minutes into your manic revising, convincing yourself (or trying to) that you're in control, you realize you are totally out of control.
You sigh, click the "X" on your word processing program, and select "No" for save changes. Something definitely went awry with your manuscript. You know this, otherwise the agent wouldn't have rejected it. But you're not thinking clearly right now. You're head swims with unanswered questions.
Now's probably not the best time to tweak your manuscript.
Maybe you should start working on that next project. Maybe the world isn't ready for this tale you've devised. Or maybe the time has already come and gone when the world was ready.
Or maybe, just maybe (says your shoulder devil), your prose. Just. Sucks. No, really. May-bee yu cann't rite yur way owt of afurth
So one day goes by. Then another. It's day three, and the rejection email remains unopened. You open the emails that arrive after it, steering clear of the one from Agent Blah-Blah-Blah from Yaddi-Yaddah Literary Agency. Will you ever open it? Likely, though you wonder. Could you go the rest of your life without doing so? Without actually reading the words: I don't feel this project is a good match for our agency at this time.
You have to open the email someday, of course, but what if you don't?
But you do. And there it is. In black-n-white.
I LOVE YOUR PROJECT! SO MUCH, IN FACT, I SHARED IT WITH THE ENTIRE AGENCY, AND THEY LOVED IT TOO! THAT’S WHY IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET BACK TO YOU. WE WANT TO SIGN YOU RIGHT AWAY! I HAVE THE PERFECT PUBLISHER FOR THIS AND ALL YOUR OTHER PROJECTS. I KNOW THE EDITOR PERSONALLY. I GUARANTEE SHE WILL LOVE IT WITH VERY FEW REVISIONS. HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH SUCH AN EXTRAORDINARILY ORIGINAL CONCEPT? SO WELL-CRAFTED, LIKE YOU’RE A PRO. I SIMPLY CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR FIRST NOVEL. PLEASE CALL ME A.S.A.P. SO WE CAN DISCUSS THE CONTRACT.
Yeah, right.
In. Your. Dreams.
You stare at your inbox, feeling like you might throw up (maybe you do a little) because you know it's a rejection. It has to be. The agent would have picked up the phone and called if it wasn't.
Even worse, you know it's going to be another form rejection. Now you really feel like you have no freakin' idea what you're doing. No direction. Nada.
The message sits, unopened. You're too afraid to touch your mouse, fearful you might accidentally open the email. Should such a heinous thing occur and you haven't actually thrown up yet, you will at that point. You know it.
And so it begins. Another waiting game, this time with yourself. How long will you hold out? You're not sure, but you try.
Dishes need to be done, so you busy yourself with that. Laundry, you do that too. Kids, dogs, cats--you attend to everyone's needs. Two hours go by, and your email might as well have H1N1 the way you're avoiding it.
You think about your manuscript. There was that one part you just knew you should have changed before sending it. That must be the reason for the (still unopened) rejection. You break open the manuscript and make the change.
There. That's better.
Well, you think it makes you feel better, that it explains away your problems.
It doesn't.
You make another change. Then another. Then another. Now you're overcompensating, oversimplifying the reason for the rejection, overthinking everything because you need some type of validation that the "problem" can be "fixed" with a few keystrokes and a bit more oomph in your creativity. This may not be the case, but what more can you do? You feel powerless except for the one thing you have power over: your writing.
Twenty minutes into your manic revising, convincing yourself (or trying to) that you're in control, you realize you are totally out of control.
You sigh, click the "X" on your word processing program, and select "No" for save changes. Something definitely went awry with your manuscript. You know this, otherwise the agent wouldn't have rejected it. But you're not thinking clearly right now. You're head swims with unanswered questions.
Now's probably not the best time to tweak your manuscript.
Maybe you should start working on that next project. Maybe the world isn't ready for this tale you've devised. Or maybe the time has already come and gone when the world was ready.
Or maybe, just maybe (says your shoulder devil), your prose. Just. Sucks. No, really. May-bee yu cann't rite yur way owt of a
So one day goes by. Then another. It's day three, and the rejection email remains unopened. You open the emails that arrive after it, steering clear of the one from Agent Blah-Blah-Blah from Yaddi-Yaddah Literary Agency. Will you ever open it? Likely, though you wonder. Could you go the rest of your life without doing so? Without actually reading the words: I don't feel this project is a good match for our agency at this time.
You have to open the email someday, of course, but what if you don't?
But you do. And there it is. In black-n-white.
I LOVE YOUR PROJECT! SO MUCH, IN FACT, I SHARED IT WITH THE ENTIRE AGENCY, AND THEY LOVED IT TOO! THAT’S WHY IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET BACK TO YOU. WE WANT TO SIGN YOU RIGHT AWAY! I HAVE THE PERFECT PUBLISHER FOR THIS AND ALL YOUR OTHER PROJECTS. I KNOW THE EDITOR PERSONALLY. I GUARANTEE SHE WILL LOVE IT WITH VERY FEW REVISIONS. HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH SUCH AN EXTRAORDINARILY ORIGINAL CONCEPT? SO WELL-CRAFTED, LIKE YOU’RE A PRO. I SIMPLY CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR FIRST NOVEL. PLEASE CALL ME A.S.A.P. SO WE CAN DISCUSS THE CONTRACT.
Yeah, right.
In. Your. Dreams.
