It’s funny how you expect things to happen, and then they don’t—or at least not quite. For example, I expected a rejection from Agent #2—the agent I sent the manuscript to at the beginning of the month (what can I say? My eastern European upbringing with parents who lived through World War II has imbued me with a healthy dose of negative thinking)—but what I hadn’t expected was the rejection to come in the mail, dated a week after the manuscript had been originally requested and emailed. I also hadn’t expected the rejection to be quaintly printed out on a 4x7-perforated piece of heavyweight paper.
There’s something more intriguing to me about the paper itself than its contents. The perforations are curious, making me wonder who else’s rejection was on the single, larger sheet. Given the size, I imagine that I shared the same rejection with three others—and I can’t help but wonder about those three strangers, the connection we have—or at least had until the perforations tore us asunder.
Here’s what the note says:
Thank you for the chance with THE GRACES OF MERCY & CIRCUMSTANCE, but I’m afraid it didn’t speak to me. Fiction is of course notoriously subjective, so I hope you won’t be discouraged by this, and will continue your search for representation.
I do appreciate your thinking of me and wish you the best of luck with this.
Cordially,
[Agent #2]
I wondered why the message came via the US Postal Service, too, especially since I sent everything via email. Then I realized that her agency—one of the largest literary agencies in the world—didn’t specify query guidelines. I had taken a shot by emailing her and lucked out when she wanted to see the manuscript.
Holding this note, this card-like missive, I realize there’s something about the feel of paper—like the feel of a book in your hands. It’s far more appealing than, say, staring at a computer monitor, feeling the effects of the flashing lights pierce into your subconscious, straining both your optic nerve and neck. Is that why I find this rejection appealing, simply because it is on paper? I doubt the agent read the whole manuscript—not in a week’s time—so the note doesn’t affect me as much as it might if I knew she’d made it to the last page, but I still have an urge to frame it—almost two weeks after its receipt—because it is so lovely to look at in its classic simplicity. Only the name of the agency appears at the bottom, not its Park Avenue and international addresses nor its various phone and fax lines. Plus, she signed only with her first name, which adds to its overall unpretentiousness…
It seems so old school—pleasantly so. It reminds me of the image of Jack Kerouac and his roll of paper, typing “On The Road” on his amphetamine high without having to worry about changing the sheets. It also makes me think that this is how great writers of the past would have received rejections—because I imagine everyone being rejected before being discovered. That makes them somehow more fascinating, the authors who could paper their walls with rejection notices and then smile smugly after they’d won a Pulitzer or stayed on the New York Times best selling list for years.
When I got the rejection, I remember thinking, oh well, back to the drawing board so to speak, as I sat with my morning coffee scanning through old posts on the various blogs I’m catching up on. Then, as coincidence would have it, I read the following from a writer:
I rarely…talk about querying and submissions on my blog, because I don’t want to look desperate or make it sound like my novel is one that has been rejected so many times that no sane agent would want to touch it.
Hmmm. It had made me wonder. Querying and the subsequent rejections and non-responses is pretty much the basis of my entire blog. Does this make me sound desperate? Like an utter outcast in the land of fiction writing?
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
So, two weeks after pondering that statement, here’s my response: writers have a common experience in the underbelly realm of rejection—so why not embrace it, share it, and then conquer the fear of it? The more you fear rejection, the more you try to avoid it—which only means you don’t dare expose yourself to others and you then become paralyzed. And not daring…well, that’s just down right counterproductive, isn’t it—especially when daring is at the core of querying in the first place?
Secondly, there’s a great deal of hubris in thinking that agents actually bother to read every wannabe author’s blogs. How would they have the time let alone the inclination when their email boxes are full of dozens of daily queries?
I say, who cares? The literary world is full of great writers who received tons of rejections for novels that still matter, and the world is full of extraordinarily talented writers who never get published simply because they’re not lucky…or aren’t related to someone famous…or haven’t been photographed drinking peach schnapps with Osama bin Laden. So be it. Let’s move on, shall we?
Yes, I think I’ll frame this rejection note. Because if this lovely little card is what we’re so afraid of, dear Lord, how do we ever manage to leave the house?
As a postscript, I sent out a quick email to Agent #3, the one who requested the first 50 pages of the manuscript about a month ago, just asking if she’d be interested in seeing the rest of it before I sent out the next batch of queries (because, really, it’s the last 50 pages that has all the action). She responded:
There’s something more intriguing to me about the paper itself than its contents. The perforations are curious, making me wonder who else’s rejection was on the single, larger sheet. Given the size, I imagine that I shared the same rejection with three others—and I can’t help but wonder about those three strangers, the connection we have—or at least had until the perforations tore us asunder.
Here’s what the note says:
Thank you for the chance with THE GRACES OF MERCY & CIRCUMSTANCE, but I’m afraid it didn’t speak to me. Fiction is of course notoriously subjective, so I hope you won’t be discouraged by this, and will continue your search for representation.
I do appreciate your thinking of me and wish you the best of luck with this.
Cordially,
[Agent #2]
I wondered why the message came via the US Postal Service, too, especially since I sent everything via email. Then I realized that her agency—one of the largest literary agencies in the world—didn’t specify query guidelines. I had taken a shot by emailing her and lucked out when she wanted to see the manuscript.
Holding this note, this card-like missive, I realize there’s something about the feel of paper—like the feel of a book in your hands. It’s far more appealing than, say, staring at a computer monitor, feeling the effects of the flashing lights pierce into your subconscious, straining both your optic nerve and neck. Is that why I find this rejection appealing, simply because it is on paper? I doubt the agent read the whole manuscript—not in a week’s time—so the note doesn’t affect me as much as it might if I knew she’d made it to the last page, but I still have an urge to frame it—almost two weeks after its receipt—because it is so lovely to look at in its classic simplicity. Only the name of the agency appears at the bottom, not its Park Avenue and international addresses nor its various phone and fax lines. Plus, she signed only with her first name, which adds to its overall unpretentiousness…
It seems so old school—pleasantly so. It reminds me of the image of Jack Kerouac and his roll of paper, typing “On The Road” on his amphetamine high without having to worry about changing the sheets. It also makes me think that this is how great writers of the past would have received rejections—because I imagine everyone being rejected before being discovered. That makes them somehow more fascinating, the authors who could paper their walls with rejection notices and then smile smugly after they’d won a Pulitzer or stayed on the New York Times best selling list for years.
When I got the rejection, I remember thinking, oh well, back to the drawing board so to speak, as I sat with my morning coffee scanning through old posts on the various blogs I’m catching up on. Then, as coincidence would have it, I read the following from a writer:
I rarely…talk about querying and submissions on my blog, because I don’t want to look desperate or make it sound like my novel is one that has been rejected so many times that no sane agent would want to touch it.
Hmmm. It had made me wonder. Querying and the subsequent rejections and non-responses is pretty much the basis of my entire blog. Does this make me sound desperate? Like an utter outcast in the land of fiction writing?
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
So, two weeks after pondering that statement, here’s my response: writers have a common experience in the underbelly realm of rejection—so why not embrace it, share it, and then conquer the fear of it? The more you fear rejection, the more you try to avoid it—which only means you don’t dare expose yourself to others and you then become paralyzed. And not daring…well, that’s just down right counterproductive, isn’t it—especially when daring is at the core of querying in the first place?
Secondly, there’s a great deal of hubris in thinking that agents actually bother to read every wannabe author’s blogs. How would they have the time let alone the inclination when their email boxes are full of dozens of daily queries?
I say, who cares? The literary world is full of great writers who received tons of rejections for novels that still matter, and the world is full of extraordinarily talented writers who never get published simply because they’re not lucky…or aren’t related to someone famous…or haven’t been photographed drinking peach schnapps with Osama bin Laden. So be it. Let’s move on, shall we?
Yes, I think I’ll frame this rejection note. Because if this lovely little card is what we’re so afraid of, dear Lord, how do we ever manage to leave the house?
As a postscript, I sent out a quick email to Agent #3, the one who requested the first 50 pages of the manuscript about a month ago, just asking if she’d be interested in seeing the rest of it before I sent out the next batch of queries (because, really, it’s the last 50 pages that has all the action). She responded:
It takes us quite a bit to read when we are busy. I will try to read ASAP but feel free to keep sending queries in the meantime. Please just don't sign with anyone before giving us an opportunity to complete reading.
My best,
[Agent #3]
So, you see? If a complete stranger can have faith in the impossible happening, why shouldn’t I?
Besides, if it was that easy to find an agent and that easy to get a first novel published, that would make a pretty boring story—at least in my books.
Besides, if it was that easy to find an agent and that easy to get a first novel published, that would make a pretty boring story—at least in my books.
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