Sounds like I've gone off the deep end? No, don't worry about that. It's a little hard to explain why this rejection made me happy, but I'll try. First, I think I've mentioned this before, but the whole idea of submitting anything to a publication like The New Yorker seems insane. Very few (if any) stories make it from the slush pile into the pages of the magazine. Writers understand that--it's a prestigious publication and it likes to work with writers they already know. While I'm sitting here typing this, some of you may be ready to hurl "Cat Person" as a counter argument because it made it out of the slush pile and onto the pages. Sure. I'm not saying it never happens, just not that often.
The idea of submitting there was crazy, but I really needed to get back into the habit of submitting my work. That's why I decided to send my story to The New Yorker. I was almost certain to get a rejection back. Actually, I didn't even expect a rejection letter at all--the submissions guidelines say if you haven't heard anything back in ninety days, assume they didn't want it. The fact that I got an acknowledgement at all is probably a good thing, right? It means at least one other person on this earth read it.
It's not that it's a bad story. I wouldn't send anything of poor quality. It's just that it's one of thousands. It didn't have much of a shot. I just needed to get back into the groove again. And I have--I've submitted plenty of work over the last few months. I just thought if I could get this New Yorker rejection out of the way, I would be ready for whatever came next. I would be able to say to the next rejection letter: "Screw you! It's good and it will find a home where someone appreciates it."
Turns out, I didn't need this rejection to rediscover my determination. I received a rejection letter last week as well, from a university journal that wasn't interested in my poetry. Normally a rejection letter sends me on a roller coaster ride of anxiety because I'm the type of person that fears success as much (or more) than failure. The anxiety I get when I see the email subject line pop up is insane.
But this one was different. I didn't get that feeling of defeat like I usually do. Mostly it's because I received one of those higher-level rejections. Usually writers get the one-line form letter rejection. I have a treasure trove of those. If it goes beyond that, it gives you a little hope, whether you make yourself insane thinking that you're reading too much in it or not. What I received is the second level rejection--the one that says they don't want it, but they look forward to you submitting again. That's progress. There is also a third level rejection that has a personal note from an editor, but since everything is email instead of the old fashioned through-the-mail rejection, I'm not entirely certain these still exist.
Now I have to turn around and submit my poetry and my short story to other publications. Although as I wrote that short story I couldn't imagine it anywhere other than the pages of The New Yorker, I know that there's a publication out there that's waiting for it. I just have to put in the time to find the right place.
