The hard part isn’t the rejection.

The hard part isn’t the rejection — it’s what we believe the rejection says about us.

As of this week, I have received twenty rejections from prospective literary agents for my debut novel; and, in all likelihood, I should expect several dozen more before one of them decides to go on this journey with me.

Needless to say, there’s been a lot of introspection in this process.

It’s not that I haven’t been rejected before. I’ve been turned down by people, schools, and jobs I’ve wanted. But this situation feels different. I’m a creative. Publishing novels isn’t just a goal: it’s a huge part of how I see my life unfolding.

Of those twenty rejection emails, some of them rolled right off my back.

No worries. That’s to be expected. I’ll just send out three more!

Some of them stung, but left me mostly unharmed.

Man, that’s a bummer. Let me revisit my cover letter and see if there’s room for improvement.

Others, however…

Do I just suck at long-form fiction? Is my writing off-putting? Is there no place in the market for my story?

I could not afford those thoughts. If I want to be a professional novelist, my work is going to get rejected hundreds of times. Thousands, even. And if I let these experiences foster doubt in myself or my craft, I won’t succeed. I had to get a grip on my mental.

So, I wrote about it. I talked with friends. I spent a lot of time spinning, and ultimately I came to both an answer and a path forward:

The hard part isn’t the rejection — it’s what we believe the rejection says about us.

Here’s the thing: rejection itself doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s simply someone saying, “this isn’t for me.” Rejection becomes a problem when we ignore all the potential reasons for it, and we fixate on one:

It’s me. I’m the problem. Or in my case, my writing.

But Lea! You might say. That can’t possibly be true. You—

Yes, my well-intentioned and supportive friend. It actually can. And I promise you, that’s actually better news than it seems to be. Because amidst all these rejections, there are a dozen reasons that I cannot control for: the agent’s preferences, the timing, the market trends. But my writing? My craft? That’s the one thing I can actually do something about.

And so, with this realization, I decided to give myself the gift of clarity. I have hired a developmental editor to read my manuscript, provide feedback, and help me understand if I truly am the problem.

If I am? Great. I’ll fix it and be a better writer for it.

If I’m not? Even better. I’ll keep trying, knowing that what I have to offer is truly a story worth telling.

The lesson here is that the pain doesn’t come from the rejection itself. It comes from the meaning we assign to it: uncertainty, the self-doubt, and the belief that there’s nothing we can do to make it better.

There is always a way to make it better — even if it doesn’t look the way you thought it would.

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