Learning To Stand
by Jane Lebak

This piece originally appeared in Byline Magazine, 2006.

 

Eighty rejections on the same day! What kind of person would be able to get back on his feet after suffering that?

Meet my son, aka "Havoc," a seven-month-old learning to walk. I haven't kept records on how often he's standing and then suddenly sitting, but he must fall at least eighty times a day. He loses his balance and sits hard, then climbs to a stand again as if he hadn't tumbled at all. Havoc accepts falling as a necessary part of standing.

Comparing his efforts to mine, I'm daunted more easily. I've submitted novels to publishers eighty times, and I have accumulated seventy-nine rejections. I think I'm determined to get my books in print, and yet I find myself stopping rather than continuing.

These falls aren't deadly. Editors don't kick me in the pants for wasting their time. I'm out the postage and the paper and the time I took to research the publisher, but nothing more. Every professional writer will explain that rejections are a necessary part of the process: every magazine or book publisher receives far more submissions than they can print, even if all of them were top-notch and perfectly slated for their audience. Most editorial correspondence is professional and polite. Receiving that thin SASE in the mail is the equivalent of sitting hard, and to be successful, a writer must work right back to a stand.

We accept that, and yet it's so easy to sit where we landed, fighting tears, without struggling to our feet--or to our keyboards--again.

A month ago, Havoc would stiffen as he fell, landing on his back like a turtle and with a tremendous head-bang against the floor. I made him stand in my arms and then flexed his knees and bent his waist, slow-motion in the security of my arms, showing him how to fall better. Nowadays he folds as he drops, landing on the part nature designed for rough landings. It sounds silly, but he had to learn how to fall.

Seeing him pull to his feet yet again, I have to conclude that at seven months old, Havoc has it all over me. Two rejections arriving on adjacent days leave me railing at the heavens. He receives eighty rejections on the same day and tries cheerfully for the eighty-first time.

Someday he will walk: he knows this with an infant's belief that the world holds only good things for one who walks. Taking a step is the promised land. With two hands free to hold his toys, he will own the world.

What keeps the baby trying while the writer falters? He has determined he will walk, and he works toward it even though it's obvious to his mother there won't be the balance or the strength for another month or two. Driven, Havoc pulls to a stand six dozen times a day, and bear in mind that unless he lowers himself to the ground or I gather him into my arms, every single attempt ends in failure.

From each failure, Havoc discovers an incentive to continue. There's enough of a victory in the standing, no matter how momentary, to entice a second try. Or a third. Or a seventy-fifth.

How can we as writers find the courage to continue submitting in the face of multiple rejections?

1) Define our victories smaller. Victory doesn't have to be a five-figure book deal. We can start with "good" rejections versus "bad" ones. The mimeographed sixth of a sheet of paper with the faded "Dear author--thank you for your submission" is clearly bad. The personal letter with suggestions for improvement is a treasure. We need to be able to tell the difference between manuscripts carefully considered versus manuscripts instantly rejected, then aim for more of the former.

2) Land more gently. Don't fantasize about the specifics of success. Don't mark on the kitchen calendar how long it's been since you sent that lone query. What works best for me is writing smaller pieces after I submit a novel, then marketing those. Right now I've got fourteen queries or submissions at various publishers and another proposal waiting on the front seat of my car. There is a second window opened in my word processor with yet another query half-written.

3) Keep track, but don't monofocus. Whenever you send a query, a submission, or even send for guidelines, keep track of it on a spreadsheet. Then close the list and forget about it. When you feel daunted, look at your list to see just how many times you've put yourself out there. You'll know you're a writer when you see how many things you've done specifically to identify yourself as one.

4) Have a goal. In the nebulous craft of writing, it's hard to know when you've made progress. What does "writing better" mean? Who defines progress? You must structure your own success, and the only way you can do that is by setting a goal and meeting it. Havoc's goal is to walk, but right now he'll settle for standing and letting go of the couch. My overall goal is to have my novels consistently published, but that's not reasonable right out of the gate. My goal in my first year of freelancing was to have either twelve acceptances or 100 rejections. I knew that if I submitted 111 times, I had to achieve one or the other. Come up with a goal suited to your present circumstances.

5) Take small steps. One hand on the couch, Havoc only shuffles. Similarly, if your goal is to have twelve publications, don't begin by submitting to Woman's Day and Redbook. Better beginning steps would be buying a market guide and scanning for smaller magazines or e-zines that dovetail with your interests.

6) Don't make it personal. Rejection means an editor cannot use your material. Most of the time it does not mean "You cannot write" or "You are a hopeless loser." Havoc's falls mean his legs are not yet strong enough or that he cannot stand on a pile of Hot Wheels cars. Maybe your writing isn't strong enough, but maybe the editor just purchased a piece similar to your own. Neither rejection nor gravity is personal.

7) Persist. My favorite writing teacher told me, "Sooner or later you'll wear the jokers down." I did, and you will too.

8) Celebrate. Like a baby "rewarded" for standing by being able to grab the toys on the couch, celebrate your milestones, even if they're not you're ultimate goal. The celebration needn't be elaborate or expensive. Maybe you can play your favorite song and do the Happy Dance in the kitchen. Havoc indulges in a delighted shriek, looks for Mommy's smile, and claps for himself.

9) Back off when you get frustrated. Finally, even Havoc takes a break to crawl, playing with the toys scattered across the floor rather than the ones on the couch. Like Havoc, when I need it, I ask for a "cuddle" from my family, my friends, or a good book. And one should never underestimate the restorative properties of warm milk.

Like learning to walk, writing is solitary work. I cannot make Havoc know how to balance himself on two feet, and an editor cannot make my writing acceptable. Most editors don't even try (which is why those coveted rejections-with-suggestions should float off the top of your rejection stack).

Hungry for feedback, writers will take our search for encouragement to extremes. "I think this rejection was signed by a human being. See, the ink smudges!" With no constructive critique on the majority of rejections, we've essentially thrown our work over a wall, paced, and had it flung back over with a red X.

Havoc uses me as his cheering section, looking at me when he stands for a moment or two, crawling for me when the bumps have come too fast and too hard. If you can join a critique group--in the real world, online, or through a school--you can have your own cheering section, and the travel isn't so solitary. When it's just you and your keyboard and a rejection letter, writing can be very discouraging.

What we must remember is that writers submit and babies pull to a stand for the same reason: we have to. It's instinct. It's fulfillment of our identities. Walking is programmed into Havoc's body the way writing is programmed into our hearts.

Falls don't deter Havoc because he wants to walk so badly. They don't stop him because he's learning, and learning is fun. We can make the submission process fun for ourselves. We can turn it into a game, turn the process into a skill set, transform the hurt into experience, and then make the changes that turn scribblings into publishable--and published--pieces.

In two months, Havoc will walk. His determination becomes mine: I have to fall before I can learn to stand, but like him, I will continue until I succeed.

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