On Rejection: A Story of a Minor Humiliation
I have 45 minutes to kill, so I thought I’d write something down, if only because there has to be someone out there who has nothing to do at work, and is looking for something to read. On Tuesday, I had tons of things to say, but today, I find myself fairly content and wordless.
The reason why I had tons of things to say on Tuesday was because I sat in the City Lights bookstore for a while, reading poems. I was also crying. I wasn’t crying because of the poetry, but rather, for myself. I wrote that stupid fucking novel Gallerina, which I knew wasn’t much good. I truly did — it is not well written. On Monday night, it got rejected by a final agent.
It’s strangely difficult to write about rejection, although it should be easy. Writers get rejected all of the time — it’s part of the job description. But still, it’s humiliating. I knew the book wasn’t good, but I was hoping someone else would see something in it — when they didn’t, I was embarrassed that I had even put it out there.
When I got the rejection email, I made a tent with my hair, and started hysterically crying. I was sitting in the middle of Bob’s Beach Grill, or something, in Laguardia Airport, with a plate of chicken fingers. Before long, I realized there was a tendril of snot that had dripped out of my nose, and attached itself to the crust of an un-eaten finger. “It’s not a big deal,” Caleb said. “You’ll write something else.”
But I was angry and humiliated, so I told him to fuck off. “You’re a fucking dick,” I told him, and he recoiled. For a while, he wouldn’t touch me. You sometimes insert poisonous words into your relationship, and you can’t take them back easily.
I was crying so hard that we almost missed the flight — to be fair to myself, I also had my period. Ten minutes before we were supposed to take off, they called our names over the PA system. I ripped through the airport, Caleb trailing behind me. On the way, I ran over a few people’s feet with my carry-on suitcase.
The entire plane was already seated by the time we boarded. I had to walk through the aisles, my eyes puffy and rimmed with red. Everyone stared. The woman sitting at the end of our row looked at us warily. “I don’t know if I can deal with it, all of your sadness,” Caleb had told me a few nights before. So I started using my sadness against him.
By the time we reached San Francisco, I had mostly gotten over the rejection, at least on the surface. I had read most of Swamplandia! by Karen Russell, who had been listed on the New Yorker’s “40 under 40” fiction writers list. It was well crafted, but terrible. I don’t think I’ll finish it. I know you’re not supposed to believe in miracles — I know you only get what you want by working at it. But I truly believe in my heart that one day, something worth writing about will arrive to me, and when I get it out, I know it will be better than Swamplandia!. It just won’t happen right now, or maybe not even any time soon. Patience is fucking trying, though, and humiliation strips you of your confidence.
I tried to let it all go. I went to City Lights, and picked up novels, and forgave myself for not having written one. I told myself that even if I never could, there were things that I have done, and will do, that make me proud. Sometimes, you have to let go of things you hold too tightly, because holding tight doesn’t do you any good. I might write a good novel. I might not. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it in this moment.
I cried a lot, in a patch of sunlight, reading poems about death by Meaghan O’Rourke. More tented hair and trying not to be noticed. Then I bought two hardcover books I can’t afford — the D.T. Max biography of David Foster Wallace, which I’m so embarrassed to read that I took off the jacket cover, and “The Tenth of December” by George Saunders, whom I worship. George Saunders published his first book at 37. I still have 7 more years — by that time, if I still haven’t published anything, there will be someone else to measure myself against.
Then I climbed a thousand steps — or so it seemed — to the top of San Francisco. There, I sat in a patch of perfect grass, my paper bag full of books in my hand. A little old lady with her dog asked me what I had bought. We got to talking, and she turned out to be Barbara Stauffacher Solomon. She invited me back to her apartment. Needing to get it off my chest, I told her about the rejection. “Happened to me a million times,” she said, and then moved seamlessly onto the next subject. No big deal. Happens to everyone. Still happens, even when you’re 83 and have had exhibitions at the Walker, and books published by Rizzoli.
That helped — she lifted my spirits. I’m reading her autobiography, and she’s funny and honest and biting and everything I want to be. My friend told me last night he never tells anyone about his rejections — only his successes. But I spend some much time humiliating other people — my family, my boyfriend, celebrities — that I thought it unfair not to humiliate myself. Three days out, and I feel clearer.
