On Rejection, Investing in my Dreams, and Being Happy

Friday, May 27, 2016
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I had something of an epiphany today in the wake of yet another rejection letter from the folks at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and it feels like an epiphany worth sharing. Here it is:

Writers are insane.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “That was your epiphany? What rock have you been living under?”

Fair enough. It’s a well known fact that writers are insane. Maybe epiphany was too strong a word. Perhaps it would be more accurate today that as I reflected on my plight as a writer who has now been rejected from Bread Loaf seven or eight times (at least), I remembered that writers are insane, and I made up my mind to opt out of certain types of writerly insanity in the future. 

Specifically, I have concluded that, for the sake of my sanity, I must opt out of paying people to tell me I’m not a good enough writer to pay them to become a better writer.

Here’s what I mean. I paid a $15 application fee, waited four months, and was then told my writing and resume did not qualify me to pay another $3,170 for a ten-day conference.

I should probably be jumping for joy that I don’t now have to pony up three thousand dollars, but like the other five-hundred or so other rejected writers (they say they accepted about 26% of applications, and that they will have nineteen workshop groups with 10 participants per groups, which suggests they had about 730 applicants), I was pretty darn dejected all day.
(Also, knowing they accepted “only” 26% doesn’t make me feel better at all because, damn it, how can I not be in that top quarter?)

So as I wandered in a dreary cloud through the steamy halls of the school where I teach, where we have no AC and the temperature has been in the upper eighties or even nineties for 3 days, which made my classroom approximately the right temperature for a refreshing sauna, which, as you can imagine, did nothing to improve my pitiful mood, I contemplated what it all meant. 

Many years ago, when I first applied to Bread Loaf, I thought acceptance would validate me and be proof that I was a writer. Looking back, I can see that if I needed someone else to tell me I was a writer, I probably wasn’t ready to benefit from an intensive conference full of very serious writers.

After several years of rejection, I took a break from applying and redoubled my efforts on developing my craft as a writer. I published two novels and finished the manuscript of a third, developed a daily writing habit so strong that I feel completely off balance if I take even one day off, and came to understand that what makes me a writer is writing. I don’t need anyone’s permission. I am writer because I write.

When I decided to apply to Bread Loaf this year after several years of not applying, I was applying not to be given proof that I’m a writer, but to spend some time with other serious writers, developing my skills and building a network, because, let’s face it, writing is lonely and non-writers just do not understand. But the fact is, even if I wasn’t applying to get validation, an acceptance would have been a sort of recognition, and so not getting in feels like a put down. 

Someone once told me that you have to hear seven positive things to balance out every one criticism. I have no idea if that’s true, but it certainly feels true. Negative things stick, and positive ones float away.

And this leads me to my epiphany: It is insane to compete with other writers for the privilege of forking over three thousand dollars. (And there are VERY few scholarships to Bread Loaf, so the vast majority of attendees have to come up with all that cash.)

With three thousand dollars, I can pay a professional editor to work with me on preparing my next novel for publication, if I chose to self-publish it, and I’d still have money left over.

With three thousand dollars, I could a whole bunch courses at a writing school like Grub Street in Boston, or even take a couple of graduate classes at a local university.

With three thousand dollars, I could take several self-styled writing retreats like I took this past April during which I spent one week, by myself, revising a manuscript like it was my job (and it was heaven!).

With three thousand dollars, I could attend any number of less prestigious writing conferences where I would probably benefit just as much as a writer, and more as a human being, because I wouldn’t run the risk of becoming all full of myself for having finally snatched the golden ring of acceptance into the special club that is Bread Loaf.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes in life we have to risk rejection to accomplish our goals, but the great thing is that we get to decide what sort of outcome is worth the possible soul-crushing heartache of rejection.

I have sent out fifty query letters to agents in the past month or so. I have invested a lot of time and effort in that process, and I have set myself up for a great deal of rejection. But I haven’t spent a dime doing so, and if one of those agents accepts my work, and if one of those agents sells my manuscript, I will get paid! Instead of paying someone else! Can you even imagine?! 

(Side note, Stephen King said something to the effect of, “If you aren’t getting a rejection letter every day, you aren’t sending out your work enough.” I have been taking that advice very seriously! For every agent rejection I get, I send out two more queries, and any day I don’t get any word from prospective agents, I send out at least one query. And you know what? It makes rejection sting a lot less when I have a concrete plan of action for responding!)


All of this brings me to my conclusion: If I’m going to invest my hard-earned money on my writing career, I’m going to do so in ways that bring me joy instead of ways that bring me stress and self-doubt, and in ways that help me feel connected to a community of writers instead of ways that pit me against other writers. That might only be a small step towards being a less crazy writer, but it's a small step worth taking.
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