Every time I receive a rejection for something I've written, I think of John Kennedy Toole, who wrote the hilarious A Confederacy of Dunces, had it rejected once to often, and topped himself.
John's mother kept hawking the book, which was eventually sold and won the 1981 Pulitzer Prize.
Oh, John, I think, remembering fondly Burma Jones, my favourite character from the novel, and promising myself for the zillionth time I'll name my first-born after him. If only you'd hung in there.
My ongoing skirmishes with copy approvals, publishers, and readers have proven to me that there is no right in writing, pun intended (other than correct grammar and spelling, of course).
Creativity is like beauty in a lot of ways, but primarily, for this discussion, the similarity is that they're both subjective. What one loves, another will loathe. We can argue the merits of creative talent all rainy afternoon long, but in the end, we'll still have our innate preferences for certain creative outputs over others.
Some writers employ their rejection slips as office wallpaper, set fire to them, and/or use them as metaphorical fuel for more output. Seeing as all my rejections come via email -- or silence, as is the go now with book publishers -- my walls remain unfettered by physical evidence of loathing.
Each time a rejection comes, there is a brief moment of disappointment. And that's it.
There are rejections in life that we can rightly take to heart, question, pore over, and use to drive ourselves crazy if we wish. But rejection by a corporation manufacturing products is not one of them.
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