Dear Mom,

Rejection sucks. Whenever I get that dreaded no, my body tenses up and I turn into this insecure version of myself who assumes the worst and wonders if I should simply give up on my dreams.

Ok, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. I have learned to let most rejections go. I have learned to look at the positive side of agents declining my book. I have even accepted that I will need around one hundred rejections before I get a yes and it’s all a necessary evil on the road to publication.

Some rejections I simply have to laugh at and move on. Like the one I received three minutes after sending out my query. There is a good chance that he didn’t want to read my work based on something small he noticed as soon as he opened my query letter. Perhaps my word count is too high, or he simply didn’t like my title. I’ll never know, but it was likely not personal.

Then there was the automatic pass I received because I sent an agent something that was specifically listed on her do not send list. I still haven’t figured out what that was. I searched her website and wish list and twitter account for any mention of not liking my subject matter and never found a match. So, I had to chalk that one up to some sort of misunderstanding.

These are moments I can’t get hung up about. I can’t allow my brain to uncontrollably spiral into a black hole of self-doubt over a misunderstanding. I won’t allow my heart to race and my body to tense over an agent not liking something small about the letter I wrote about my book.

However, sometimes, it does sting. 

When a writer is ‘in the trenches’ as they say, it can be challenging to not let it get to you. You can be strong and brush it off most of the time. But I doubt any writer can come out of this process completely unscathed. 

At times I’ll get angry. I’ll get defensive. I’ll tell myself that the response felt cold and distant. I’ll blame the agent for not understanding my work.

Some days, I’ll blame myself for not conveying my story better. I’ll attack my art. I’ll convince myself that I’m a shit writer and that’s the only reason they don’t want more from me.

I will say, most of the time, I learn. I take the form rejections or no replies as feedback. Silence can be golden in this scenario. I can make up my own story as to why they don’t want my book and use it as an opportunity to grow. My query letter isn’t strong enough? I paid to get a professional critique of my letter. My synopsis isn’t good enough? I listened to a podcast about how to write a better one. My personality isn’t jumping off the page? I went to a writers’ conference and pitched in person. My opening pages aren’t appealing enough? I paid for a professional critique of my first chapter.

I’ve researched. I’ve revised my book. I even joined Twitter (X) and have learned quite a lot of valuable information from the writing community on that platform. 

Still, at times, rejection can really sting.

A few days ago, I got a rejection that stung more than normal. This one sat with me for days. 

It had been two weeks since my last rejection. I still have sixteen agents I’m waiting to hear from. I had been a bit anxious about the silence. Had been trying not to get my hopes up that maybe agents are thinking about my words, hence the silence. Then, my email pinged. And there it waited. Another form rejection. Another copy and pasted paragraph telling me not to give up but that this agent had to pass.

Now, I will say, I completely understand why agents use form rejections. I’d probably do the same if I got constantly bombarded with queries every day from aspiring writers. It would take an impossible amount of time to personalize each and every response. I get that.

Still, this one rejection burned. A lot. 

For some reason, rejection from a total stranger can hold so much power. It can reduce me to my worst self. 

Why does it affect me so deep in my bones?

Do you remember when I wrote to you about that little thing called imposter syndrome? No matter how much work I do to build up my confidence, when I get a rejection, I immediately wonder if I should give up. I instantly question if I’m a good writer or not and if maybe someone is going to call complete bullshit on my dreams. It must be true. All the dark thoughts circling my mind. I must be a total hack. All the years of writing alone in my bedroom has only proved that I enjoy writing, not that I’m any good at it.

Every single rejection. Even the ones I’ve convinced myself are a fluke. Or I’ve labeled as misunderstanding. Still, I react. The rejection arrives. I cower. I go back to my self-doubting. I believe that I don’t belong. I become that teenager who thought she would never amount to anything.

This is exactly why I always found comfort in self-sabotage. If only I could say now that the reason they’re rejecting me is because I didn’t send my best work. If only I could say I sent my query emails while drunk. If only I could say I sloppily edited and sent out pages riddled with typos. 

Unfortunately, I have no excuses. I have put a ton of effort into my manuscript. I continuously edit. I have even rewritten half of it, upon the request of agents who either declined or haven’t responded to my new pages.

The more I think about this, the more I am starting to discover what it is about these rejections that hurts so much. It’s not the dismissing on its own. It’s not the fact that someone doesn’t want my work. That someone doesn’t want to represent me. It’s the not knowing why. 

This is my ultimate weakness. My inability to be content with missing information. To be ok with not knowing how someone feels about me or where I stand. I am haunted by the thoughts in my head. My building up of pretend scenarios. Those pesky what ifs messing with me once again.

What I am searching for during this process isn’t for every agent to want to sign me, rather it’s for every agent who doesn’t want to sign me to tell me why. I want to know what’s wrong with my writing. I need to know why. When I don’t have that immediate feedback, I assume the worst.

Maybe I loved school so much as a kid because I always knew instantly how I was performing. I had my test scores. I got my writing graded. I knew immediately if I was good at something or bad or needed work. There is little in life that is more satisfying to me than having a page of handwritten notes from a teacher on the back of a story or essay that I wrote. Good or bad. Positive or negative. Feedback is helpful.

When I send pages out to agents, I have no idea if what I sent is good or bad. I can hope that each agent declines solely because it’s not the right fit for them, but I also can’t possibly know that for sure. This makes the editing process quite challenging as I am basing most of my decisions on my own doubts and the stories I’ve created in my head.

If only I could know why.

But then I have to ask myself, would it change my life to know why a stranger likes or doesn’t like my art? And if it would truly change my life to know this answer, is that healthy? Maybe what I need to start focusing on is how to move on from these rejections and not let them bother me. Perhaps I need to admit that I don’t need approval. That I do have confidence. And that I don’t need to create an enemy out of every no. 

This is where compassion arrives. Both self-compassion for me as well as compassion for the agents out there.

I know that dwelling on rejections and enabling the worst of my self-doubt only leads me to a place of pity and desperation. I end up needing outward approval. I want to be told that I belong. I crave a sense of encouragement from people who, to be perfectly honest, don’t owe me anything.

Agents have jobs. They have to agent. Their whole world does not revolve around the writers who query them. Their profession is to help their clients. They can’t waste all of their time thinking about the feelings of writers like me who are sitting at home waiting for responses and obsessing over every word in every email. They are real people with valid feelings, and they deserve respect. What I need to do, for my own mental health, is to understand that agents aren’t out to get me. They aren’t trying to hurt me. In fact, they’re too busy and too stressed and too overwhelmed at most times to even be thinking about me. 

Then there is the self-compassion. I know that I am a great writer. I am confident in that truth. I have two degrees in writing. I have years of experience honing my craft. I should not be allowing myself to collapse into self-doubt because a busy agent doesn’t think we’re the right fit. There is a very good chance it has nothing to do with my writing. There is an even better chance that it has nothing to do with me as a person. It. Is. Not. Personal.

In an effort to let go of this exhausting spiral of self-pity, I am going to stop allowing myself to be distraught after every rejection. I will keep space for disappointment. I am entitled to feel bummed. But I will not allow the despair to creep in. I will not allow myself to be consumed. Instead, I will find a positive. Find a word or a sentence or a feeling in every rejection letter that I can twist and turn into an opportunity for growth. I know I can do that. You taught me this skill. You silently suffered in so many ways, and that is a truth that breaks my heart, but your ability to find a positive spin was passed down to me. The silver lining exists everywhere. Even in the darkest moments.

If I can’t find anything to grasp onto. If I can’t find that upside of a rejection. Then I will make sure to aim my compassion to the person who rejected me. I believe that in the act of finding compassion for them, I will in turn get through the negative thoughts and find my way back to my confidence. 

Through leading with compassion, I can start to understand that this entire publishing process isn’t personal. That every rejection isn’t personal. Failure at getting published isn’t failure as a person. I must be kind to myself if I want to get through this journey without being completely depleted. And I must find compassion for the agents and the editors and the publishers out there who will reject me. They aren’t bad people. They are busy and honest people who aren’t the right fit for me or for my writing. And that’s ok.

When this insane experience is over, after what will likely become over a hundred no’s, it will not be the end of rejection for me. Next will come rejections from editors and publishers and later from readers. Beyond the scope of my writing, I will also continue to face rejection throughout everyday life, as we all do. 

We all experience disappointment and self-doubt in one way or another. These are human reactions to human experiences. I am human. As are all the people who are rejected and all the people who reject. We are all human. And we all deserve compassion.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel