In this new world model of publishing, the traditional gatekeepers — editors, agents, publishers — are finding themselves in a slightly different position. Self-publishing is on the rise, and anyone dissatisfied with “the system” can choose to detour around the gates and the gatekeepers entirely. But that does not encourage the gatekeepers to abandon their posts; quite the contrary, in fact.

Over at Black Gate Magazine, my friend Peadar Ó Guilín explains why the gatekeepers are still with us, and why they’re important.

As a gatekeeper, I can tell you that there is a vast sea of fiction out there that is fantastic, but it’s a drop in a larger ocean of work that is unpolished, not self-aware of the fact that it has flaws, and just not ready to be published. It’s unfortunate that the writers who pen great works are the ones who are self-conscious of their writing and are more prone to be the ones to wonder if it’s good enough, while the ones who have the longest way to go are sometimes the most blind to that fact.

The gatekeepers try to add balance and perspective. Getting rejected is frustrating, but sometimes it’s for a writer’s own good. Working with the system and improving to reach that bar requires learning, dedication, and talent. Bypassing the system perhaps seems easier, and in rare cases it can have good results. But in the long run it isn’t necessarily best for the writer (who loses out on a chance for professional advice and guidance) or for the reader (who must wade through more quantity to find quality).

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!

Just as important as how to write, is what to write.

In a panel at Anticipation 09 in Montreal, editor David G. Hartwell said:

“The sincere desire on the part of the writer to write the book will communicate to the reader. This is not something that is often said in public, but it is nevertheless the truth. And it is my experience that if you write what you truly wish to write, it will communicate more and better to the reader than anything else you could possibly write. Sincerity trumps everything. Even execution.”

Write the story that you want to tell.

Writing the story that you want to tell, you will always end up with a better, more passionate manuscript than if you’re writing what you think you should write, or if you’re writing what you think will sell. If your heart’s not in it, it will show.

However, the unfortunate truth is that while writing the story that you want to tell is always the place to start, it is not always enough to get you published.

Someone who attended one of my panels at Worldcon noted that there are some publishers who don’t even want to see a story written in the present tense, or the first person, no matter what it’s about.

I responded, first, that this isn’t true of all publishers. And that it’s not generally due to a dislike of first person, or present tense, it’s because these things are very hard to do well, and after you see them done badly enough, often enough, it’s almost a public service to try to dissuade others from trying. Sometimes it works for a story. When it does, it’s extremely powerful. Often times, though, it doesn’t.

When publishers say “I don’t want to see this,” what they often mean is “I don’t want to see this done badly,” or “I have seen eight hundred of this in the last month and I’m going to rip my eyes out if I see it one more time this year.” Even if you’re confident in your treatment of a particular this, do that publisher a favor and submit it elsewhere. Maybe they’ll be missing out on something great. If so, accept that it’s their choice, and just resolve to wow them next time with your that.

There are many plot ideas, story mechanics and twists that editors and publishers see so often that they feel “done to death”; and it’s not just jaded professionals — readers often feel the same way. Strange Horizons magazine has gone as far as to supply a list of Stories We’ve Seen Too Often. They’re careful to point out, “This is not a canonical list of bad stories or story cliches. This is a list of types of stories that we at SH have seen too often; it’s not intended to be a complete list of all types of bad stories, nor are all the items on the list necessarily bad.”

If the story that’s within you is on that list, or some other similar list, what do you do?

You write it anyway.

Really. I mean it.

They’re not telling you what not to write. They’re telling you what they don’t want to see.

There’s a huge difference, and it’s so important that I’ll say it again: They’re not telling you what not to write.

Don’t let current trends or the taste and preference of any one publisher, agent, or editor influence what you write. If all publishers, agents and editors had the same taste and preference, there wouldn’t be a market for so many of them.

Write what matters to you.

Write the story and the characters and the setting that are churning around in your head waiting to be set down. Write it with passion and enthusiasm, and enjoy every moment of it.

Even if you never get it published, write it anyway. It will still have been an opportunity to practice your writing and hone your craft. It will free up all the other ideas inside you that have been jostling for position behind it.

Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine‘s Douglas A. Van Belle offers a Totally Comprehensive and Universal List of Every Problem a Story Has Ever Had. There’s some great advice in there, a lot of stumbling points to watch out for, and I strongly recommend the list to readers. Again, Doug is quick to point out that there is at least one great story guilty of each problem on the list. Having one of these problems doesn’t guarantee a bad story; on the whole, though, they’re things you probably don’t want to do.

Evaluate your story on that level. Look at lists like the one I started last Thursday, that discuss how to add polish to your writing, and evaluate your word choices on that level.

Rewrite the story that matters to you. Give it impeccable grammar, spelling and punctuation. Make it as free of commonly-seen predictability and problems as you can, while retaining its core with integrity. It’s already something you can be proud of. Now you’re making it shine.

Now, start submitting that manuscript and move on to the next story that’s bubbling up inside you, just waiting to be told.