We all have a deep-seated need for closure in our lives. We like to know why people have made the choices that they’ve made, whether we’ve done something wrong to bring about that choice or whether acting differently could have somehow changed the outcome.
In the absence of answers, we tend to analyze situations and come up with answers of our own. We rationalize events around us all the time, to the point that we don’t even notice ourselves doing it. If traffic is slow, we tell ourselves that there’s road construction up ahead, or maybe there’s been an accident. If someone’s late for an appointment, or doesn’t answer the phone, we come to an internally satisfying conclusion about what might be occupying them.
In the absence of an explanation, we also tend to try to read too closely between the lines of a form rejection letter. No reason is given, but there must have been a reason, so we rationalize and analyze and come up with our own.
I acknowledge that, I empathize with it, and I send out form rejections anyway. I stand by it.
1. It’s kinder to dump someone outright than to lead them on.
Do form letters deprive writers of the constructive criticism that might make their work better? Maybe. But if I’ve already decided I don’t want it and that nothing you can change will make me want it, I’m not the one you’ve got to make it better for. If it’s close enough that I’d accept it if a couple things were different, I will tell you. But I won’t suggest changes that might make it less suitable for publication somewhere else, when I don’t plan to take it on no matter what you do with it.
2. Form letters discourage further conversation.
It’s a simple one-shot business transaction. You send me one query, I send you one response. If that response is no, that’s all you get, and I don’t want to give out any signals that suggest my decision might be open to negotiation. It isn’t. I don’t want to invite discussion, I won’t be coerced into giving a free critique, and I don’t have time to listen to a rebuttal against my decision. It won’t change my mind, it’ll just make you look unprofessional. You need to move on, and you need to let me move on, too. You’ll earn more respect by respecting my decision. And it’s not just me: Colleen Lindsay’s post What Not to Do When You Get a Rejection speaks in more depth about the kinds of follow-up correspondence agents and editors don’t like to see.
3. Don’t assume it’s you.
Some people respond to rejection in a very internal way. They think they must have done something wrong, and they analyze every minute nuance of their actions trying to figure out how they could have done better or changed the outcome. If you’re a writer, you need to develop a thicker skin than that. If your work is polished and well-written and interesting and engaging, it could just be that it’s not a fit for a particular publisher, that it’s not directed toward their market, or that it’s directed too well toward their market and they already have too many similar submissions in their list. Don’t beat yourself up over your query letter, either. If it’s well-written and professional and portrays you as sane and serious about getting published, it was probably fine. Get a critique group to look at your manuscript and your query, get opinions from other writers and from editors. If general consensus is that your manuscript is at a publishable stage and appropriate for submission, just accept that it wasn’t that publisher’s “type,” and move on.
4. Don’t assume it’s NOT you.
On the opposite end of the continuum, we find people who refuse to take responsibility for anything. The world is out to get them, and it’s everyone’s fault but theirs. Don’t go too far in this direction and assume your manuscript is perfect. Yes, it may have just been that your golden triangle didn’t fit in a publisher’s square hole, but it may also be that you’ve submitted a lump of unpolished tin. I see a lot of manuscripts that just aren’t fit to be published, with horrible grammar and spelling, or with premises and protagonists that make me weep. A certain amount of confidence is a good thing, but don’t ever become so overconfident that you refuse to consider that your manuscript might not be ready for the big leagues. Not all manuscripts are perfect; in fact, few of them are. If they were, I wouldn’t have a job.
5. Whether it’s about you or not, it’s not personal either way.
You’ve probably worked on your manuscript for a very long time. It’s your baby. It’s part of who you are. It’s your inner daydreams and emotions and hopes and fears written down for the whole world to see. You’ve never felt so free, or so exposed, as when you hand that little piece of your soul over for someone else’s approval or enjoyment. But to them, it’s just a book. It’s one of many books. Millions of books. No one who declines your manuscript is passing judgment on you or your worth as a person. They’re simply saying that this particular offering isn’t appropriate for them at this time. You’ve probably heard a thousand times about all the rejection letters any writer gets. I understand that “Don’t take it personally” is easier said than done. But really, I mean it. I make no value judgment on you as a person if I reject your manuscript. I don’t even make a value judgment on your writing. I just don’t want to publish it. It really is as impersonal as that. And that’s part of the value of a form rejection, believe it or not. As Rachelle Gardner points out, “the more detailed I get about the rejection, the more personal that rejection becomes.”
6. It’s who you know… but only to a point.
Nothing fills me with more anxiety than sending my own submissions out to face rejection. But, second to that, nothing fills me with more anxiety than reading a submission from a friend or colleague if I’m unfamiliar with their writing. Knowing someone in the industry might get you in the door, but what happens when you’re inside is all up to you. Your manuscript still has to stand on its own merits. It’s under more pressure, even, because it’s going to reflect on the person who referred you, too. I don’t give pity dates; if I accepted something that didn’t meet my standards, it would reflect on my reputation, as well. If it turns out that I can’t take it, I’ll have to reject it all the same no matter who you are. If I do take it, you can be assured that it’s because the manuscript has earned it. I may be more likely to offer feedback and critique to a friend’s manuscript, but I’m not going to be any more likely to accept it.
7. It’s not random.
I think this is the hardest one to accept. There are reasons, even if you don’t know them, and you may never know what they are. This is where the whole mythos of the crapshoot comes from: the folklore that acceptance and rejection are based solely on the editor or agent’s mood, a toss of a coin, what they had for breakfast and the state of their morning commute. It’s easy and convenient to think that way when you’re not presented with evidence to the contrary. I understand that it gives you the closure that you need. But please give us a little credit, too. Most of us treat our submissions seriously and make careful, considered decisions. Ultimately, we want to like the submissions we get. We wish every manuscript we get could be The One. And we want to see you succeed, too, even if your manuscript isn’t right for us.
Further reading:
- Dealing with Silence and Rejection by Earl Newton
- Investment – a post about rejection by JA Konrath
- The Art of Reading Rejection Letters by Nathan Bransford
- Why it’s Hard to Tell the Whole Truth by Rachelle Gardner (with links to further posts about rejections)
- What Not to Do When You Get a Rejection by Colleen Lindsay
- What Editors Mean, in which Kit Whitfield takes the dating analogy to a whole new level
I’ll leave you with this, from author JA Konrath: “Remember, there’s a word for a writer who never gives up: Published.”
If you’ve got a link to another good post on the subject, please leave it in a comment!
Thanks for this post. Some writing friends and I have been discussing this very thing. We feel blind about our own rejections. I still think it would be nice to have a multiple choice form letter that could be circled so we have some feedback without it being personal.
It’s so hard to offer the slightest crumb without being in with both feet, though. If I say, “We have seen too much of this,” it invites a “Well, what haven’t you seen much of? I’ll send you that.” If I say, “Your plot is weak,” or “Your writing isn’t up to professional standards,” it invites, “What can I do to strengthen it?” If I think something’s flat-out awful, I don’t want to say so, and if I think something’s really good but I just can’t take it, I think sharing that will just make things worse. Would it make you more bitter if someone said “I really like this but I’m turning it down anyway”?
Another thing to keep in mind: the first thing many authors do when they finally get published is drag out all those rejection letters with the personal comments on them, and flaunt them to prove those rejecters wrong. No agent or editor wants to write anything that’ll be flung back in our face, any more than an author wants to see their query ripped apart and laughed at unprofessionally on an editor’s blog. Yet, writers do it. It happens. The form letter is also our CYA in that regard.
I wish I could be forthcoming when it’s easy and then not be forthcoming when the truth is harder to share. I do have slightly different variations of the form letter for slightly different situations, like a “This doesn’t match our guidelines at all” one, but in general it’s just safer to not be forthcoming, ever, unless it’s a case where I’d consider taking the manuscript if the problems I identify were fixed.
I understand that feedback doesn’t instill false hope in everyone, but it instills false hope in too many people and gives ammunition to others. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I suspect most of us who send out rejection letters have learned it the hard way. Being forthcoming and helpful, as often as not, comes back to bite us in the ass.
Most rejections are going out to people who are at least not yet doing work that is ready for publication (and may never be). Most rejected writers cannot tell the difference between their material and things that are published. They can’t hit the target because they can’t see it clearly enough (or can’t discriminate it from the many things that are not the target).
The hidden message of every form rejection is “Look at what we publish. Look at what you sent us. Try to see the difference. If you can’t, look harder. When you do see the difference, apply it to your work, not to a letter to us.”
And that’s a message that most writers won’t accept, so there’s little point in sending it to them.
Very well said.
Thank you!
Gabriel -
Terrific post, it can’t be said enough. The business of creativity is a business, and should be treated as such. How many plumbers keep trying to sell bad pipes, in the hopes people will validate their skills?
You learn your craft, you hone it, then you go into the world.
Where are our journeyman authors?