When the one you thought could be THE one says no
On writing & rejection
Last night, shortly before bed, I got my latest rejection. This one stung a little more. It was from the publication I thought could be the one for an essay I wrote late last year. A publication I love which has a decent readership, but isn’t super famous or celebrated. A publication that felt, at this moment in my career, like an achievable goal. Turns out I was wrong. They rejected it. The submission switched from ‘received’ to ‘in progress’ before Christmas so they did take their time before declining. And the rejection email was also kind: “This isn't a reflection on your writing. The selection process is highly subjective, something of a mystery even to us. There's no telling what we'll fall in love with, what we'll let get away.”
I was disappointed but also understood. I’m working on a piece about queer ecology at the moment and was writing about how, in relation to miscarriage, mother nature starts so many more projects than she could ever finish. The publications I’ve been submitting to have limited space and even if your work is good, it doesn’t always get accepted. (Or, in my case, doesn’t ever get accepted.)
I’m so grateful to be at a moment in my career when this doesn’t bother me too much. In the past, rejection felt so deeply wounding. When people said no to my work about grief and trauma and abuse and despair, it felt like a repudiation of my writing as a whole. As if they were dismissing the whole idea of writing about trauma and creating something that could be useful to other people. That season in my life seems to have passed. I’m not sure why. I suspect the fact that I have a full and happy life outside of my work is a big part of it.
I’m relieved to still have a viable path forward too. In the past, I’ve wondered if, after a piece is repeatedly rejected, I should let it go? Now I know the answer is no. There are so many more publications to be rejected from! I’m joking, but only kind of. The life of a writer is a life of rejection, but that’s OK. It’s the process that I love. I get so much joy from the work of creation, immersing myself in the craft and the research and the interesting things you discover, that publication often feels somewhat incidental.
I am sad that people haven’t yet gotten to read these pieces though. I’ve got three completed essays about faith and food and grief and trauma and haunted hot water bottles that I would love to find a readership! These are essays I’m proud of, that have been revised and redrafted many, many times. First readers have said lovely things: “this made me cry,” “send it to The New Yorker,” “be ambitious with pitching this one, it deserves a wide audience”. But, no-one (yet) has wanted them. I’m going to keep going, keep looking for a readership for stories that mean a lot to me. Stories which I hope will be meaningful for readers. During a tough writing moment, a friend sent me this. I’d heard it before but it hit me differently as I managed the fall out from the publication of this piece. I write for myself, because I love it, but I also write for the readers who will see themselves in my work. The people who will feel less alone after reading, the people who will decide to go on.
There is something kind of perfect about this moment though too. I’m diligently writing away in relative obscurity, learning more about what I want to say, how I maneuver on the page and what shapes fit the stories I want to tell. I love the hibernation of that, the solitude, the cozy isolation. That will necessarily ebb away a bit, I think, as more of my work is published. I want to be read, I’m excited for that chapter (har har!) but I also want to celebrate where I am right now: on the cusp of something, about to make a shift into an after which makes the before newly inaccessible.
Thank you for reading. I’m glad you’re here.
Clare x
5 things
(I’m gonna experiment with including a few recommendations at the end of each essay, rather than creating monster lists of recs that, I think, can be a bit overwhelming. Let me know if you like it!)
I haven’t seen the movie yet but I still got so much from this essay about Tár and the idea of an artist as an abuser.
The Comedy Wildlife Photography awards are always good for a giggle.
I spent some time this week signing up to pay the creators I've loved for years. Felt so good.
She Said made me want to be a journalist (again).
I’m Glad my Mom Died was sad but also so, so funny.