All writers know rejection. Ruth Lilly certainly did. Ruth was a philanthropist and the great-granddaughter of the pharmaceutical magnate, Eli Lilly. In her middle years, she submitted her writing to Poetry and though they never published her, she was so touched by their handwritten, encouraging rejection letters that when she died, she left the little magazine $100 million dollars.
I can picture Ruth Lilly opening her letter from Poetry, her initial jolt of being rejected, and settling into a black mood. According to the New York Times obituary, “By all accounts, her mind sharpened and her overall mood lightened considerably in 1988, when the Eli Lilly-developed antidepressant Prozac came on the market.” After her initial disappointment, I can see her rereading the handwritten, encouraging rejection letter, parsing each comment, the warm words reviving her energy for writing.
My friend Diana goes into a depression upon receiving a rejection. She understands it’s hard to get published and she won’t get published if she doesn’t submit, but a refusal ruins her day. Another writer friend, Carolyn, is so terrified of being passed by that she never submits. She is frozen. She continues to write, revise, and polish, her pieces piling up like unread New Yorkers, but she cannot bring herself to send out her work.
Although I regularly receive rejections, the anticipation of an acceptance never wanes. I continue to submit my work in the face of refusal; I do not take Prozac. I copy the manuscript, type a submittal letter, enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE), and send off the package hoping this will be the one. This will be the magazine that chooses to publish my work. I wait months and months and months for a response. Then my SASE appears in the mailbox, slim as a sacramental wafer, and I know it is a rejection.
Rejections are rarely letters. The days of handwritten, encouraging rejection letters are over. Instead, they are small slips of paper with a preprinted message. Here are a few from my collection. Although the poems, story or essay in this submission don’t quite meet our immediate needs, we appreciate the opportunity to consider your fine work and regret that the volume of submissions we receive prevents us from responding in a more personal manner. I wonder if they read it. They don’t seem to know what it was—poems, story or essay. Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we will be unable to use it for publication. While we wish we could provide personalized feedback on every submission, staffing limitations make this impossible. Thank you for your interest, and good luck in your writing career. The Editors. They didn’t like it. Thank you for your submission. We enjoyed your writing but could not find a place for it in the journal at this time. We wish you the best of luck in your writing and encourage you to submit to us again. Sincerely, The editors (and a handwritten “Thanks”). They said to submit again. My spirits rise.
In his essay No, Brian Doyle discusses rejection letters. Letters he has received as a writer and letters he has written in his role as a magazine editor and letters he only dreams of writing. Doyle seems genuinely concerned for the writer’s tender ego and has settled on this message: Thanks for letting me read your work, but it’s not quite right for this magazine. I think I would feel comforted by the personal pronoun and the statement’s sentiment, even though it’s not a handwritten, encouraging rejection letter.
I collect my rejectamenta in a binder and reread them from time to time. I wonder if Ruth Lilly kept a file or designated a desk drawer to save her handwritten, encouraging rejection letters. I find myself looking for hidden meanings in the scant notes. If they don’t ask me to submit again, does that mean they hate my writing and don’t ever want to see another submission from me? If they encourage me to submit again, do they really mean it or are they just being nice? Do they have a range of preprinted messages depending on how they judged the piece? I notice I feel uncommonly grateful for a handwritten “Thanks.”
Sometimes the wispy preprinted note has a handwritten signature. Once in a while, a few words will be scribbled below the black type. And often a second scrap of paper is enclosed—a subscription form for the journal.
I, and most writers I know, subscribe to literary magazines. I enjoy reading and I want to keep current on trends and I try to learn the types of literature a journal favors so I don’t waste time and money sending submissions to an unsuitable publication. I typically mail a submission to fifteen journals at a time. It takes two days to choose the most fitting venues, sift through guidelines, assemble the materials, and about $50 for copying and mailing. When I do get that coveted acceptance, my pay is two copies of the journal. I often buy extra copies of the edition where my work appears and if I’m not already receiving the magazine, I subscribe out of appreciation and support. The burden of writing short stories and creative nonfictions and essays seems financially one-sided, so I’m disappointed when a literary magazine encloses a subscription form with their generic rejection notice. And the subscription form isn’t attractive or well printed like ones found in the magazine and they don’t include an SASE, so, once again, I’m paying for postage.
I was more than disappointed when I received a letter from a highly respected literary journal three weeks after I submitted a short story. The envelope was not my SASE and it was thicker than the usual rejection notice. It felt like two or three pages triple-folded. I tried not to get excited. I told myself if they wanted my piece, they would have emailed me. But maybe they wanted a revision and this was a long letter suggesting changes. I had recently received such a letter from another journal. I kept talking myself down and I even put aside the envelope while I went through the other mail, casting glances at it, imagining what it might contain. I finally opened the envelope and found a personally addressed letter acknowledging receipt of my story, naming its title, and assurances they would get back to me within three months with their decision. In the meantime, the message went on, would I consider making a charitable donation to their organization? They promised my response would in no way affect their deliberations on the merit of my piece. I felt like they were toying with me. They know how hard it is to get published. According to one source, this journal rejects over 98 percent of submissions. Did they believe I would donate just in case they do give preference to supporters? I wonder what Ruth Lilly would have done. I did not donate. Three months after submission, I received 4 X 4-inch slip of preprinted paper: Thanks for your interest. After careful consideration, we have decided we are unable to use your manuscript. We wish you the best in finding a home for it elsewhere. The Editors. Don’t bother us again?
The fund-raising letter came about the same time I read Ruth Lilly’s obituary, and it got me thinking. I am considering enclosing a copy of Ms. Lilly’s obituary with my submission materials and yellow-highlighting the parts about how touched she was by handwritten, encouraging rejection letters and how she responded by donating scads of money to a small journal. I don’t think I need point out to those who read submissions that they have no idea of the financial wherewithal of their unknown submitters. In fact, the writer may well have other resources since writing rarely pays—the writer may have scads of money, like Ruth Lilly. I want the editor to pause before picking up the small preprinted rejection form. I want her to think, maybe I should treat this person with consideration, maybe someday my effort will pay off for our struggling magazine, maybe I should take time to write a short note.
I understand that we’re lucky to have so many literary journals still viable and bringing writers’ works into the world. I know the staff put in long hours and money worries are constant. Still, I am yearning for more courteous intercourse with literary magazine editors.
In the meantime, I’m taken with the idea of inserting Ms. Lilly’s obituary in my submission packet. It’s like turning the tables on the editors. Instead of the writer anxiously awaiting their judgment, the editors become the supplicant, wondering if maybe, just possibly, this writer might be the one—a future benefactor, a special person who will remove all their financial worries.
After they asked me for a donation and rejected my short story, I sent the importuning literary magazine $40 for a one-year subscription. I enjoy reading their journal and I was curious if they would ask a subscriber for a donation. So far, no request.
Subscribers can read all our publications by logging in. |
___________________________________
Susan Knox’s stories and essays have appeared in Barely South Review, CALYX, Cleaver, The MacGuffin, Matador Review, Sequestrum, Still Point Arts, Zone 3, and elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for Best of the Net. She and her husband live in Seattle, near Pike Place Market where she shops most days for the evening meal.
“Turnabout is Fair Play” originally appeared in Monkey Puzzle Press, 2012.