I’ve been reading through the latest annual anthologies—Best American Short Stories, O. Henry Prize Stories, and the Pushcart Prize anthology. While there are some genuinely remarkable stories to be found in these collections, there are also some stinkers. These are the hardest to swallow when I encounter them, but I’ do try to force myself to read through the whole thing and find a nugget of craft wisdom and/or some redeeming quality. (Not easy when you’re seething with jealousy!) This process has been fraught with inner conflict because stories I’ve been working on for years continue to accumulate rejections. My current streak is 211 straight rejections. (Six different stories, but still, it’s enough to make you questions your sanity/skill more than a few times.)
In the depths of my despair, I went down an internet rabbit hole yesterday where I discovered a dozen or so contemporary authors—half of whom are also editors at fancy magazines—are connected by friendship, institution, and/or general incestuous literary relations. I kept clicking, and the cynicism mounted. It took me all of two hours to come up for air, so here I am: coming up for air. To combat this cynicism, I’m reminding myself of these many stories, heartened even, choosing to keep the faith rather than wallow in self pity.
James Baldwin purportedly got a note from a publisher regarding Giovanni’s Room, saying it was “hopelessly bad.”
Madeline L’Engle was rejected 26 times before finally finding a publisher for A Wrinkle in Time.
Allison Wyss, who I used to teach with at The Loft, had a story rejected “ninety-something times,” but she believed in the story, kept sending it out, and eventually got it published in Moon City Review. The story eventually got nominated for a Pushcart Prize and became the cornerstone of her debut story collection.
Apparently Stephen King’s Carrie was rejected by over 30 publishers, with most publishers spurning it for its too-negative worldview. Eventually it was published and sold over a million copies in the first year alone.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance received 121 rejections before becoming a million-something-selling book.
Dune was rejected by 20 publishers.
Gertrude Stein supposedly submitted poems for 22 years before eventually publishing one. (22 years! )
The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin’s beloved classic—which inspired many writers like Michael Chabon, Zadie Smith, and David Mitchell—was called “endlessly complicated.” (That’s a bad thing?)
J.K. Rowling was rejected 12 times (not actually that many in my estimation, but oh well) before she found a publisher for Harry Potter. Bloomsbury printed only 500 copies for the first printing before it spread like wildfire.
Louisa May Alcott was told to “stick to teaching.”
A miraculous thing happened after I had my little pity party. George Saunders came out with a great little bit about—you guessed it—rejection on his Substack. He says, “I guess what I'm saying is that this writing life is not just about writing and one of the gifts it gives us is a chance to better know who, at our best, we are.”
I’m choosing to stay heartened, and choosing to believe that I haven’t found out who I am at my best. That perhaps I haven’t, as Saunders says, driven down into the deeper place of “uncomfortable honesty.”
We love stories of the underdog, the bootstrapped artist who kept flinging shit to the wind despite all odds, the artist who persisted, and there are many more out there if you go digging. If you are attempting to make art or to get people to believe in it, as I am, or if you are simply trying to complete a painting or a story or a sculpture or song, know that you’re not alone, that I, too, am trying to get to that uncomfortable honesty—about my work, my habits, myself. Know that I’m flinging shit, too.