I couldn't take one more.
But then one more came!
And...another.
And then like fifteen others.
For years, it was nonstop. It was almost routine. I'd send in something—anything—to a magazine, a highly specific publication, a literary agency, a zine, or some GeoCities site that has four page views total....and receive a "No thanks" the next day. Usually automatically-generated.
I was getting used to constant rejection for my work, though sometimes a particular reply would make me want to flop my head down onto the keyboard and just leave myself there forever as a living museum for patrons of pity. Like:
Hi Mari,
I hope you had a great weekend. After much thought, I've decided the current opportunity available is not a match. Thank you for your enthusiasm for [publication] and wishing you success in your future endeavors.
I wanted to write back, "Shut up."
Instead, I did my usual routine of threatening to quit writing forever, as though that would tilt the universe back into a place of fairness and order and logic. "I'll show them, I just won't ever write anything again," I threatened absolutely nobody, shaking my fist at the ethers, where the internet and publishing probably lived.
But I could never stop for long. The thing about getting jaded and resentful is that it only punishes you and no one else. It was tenderness that had gotten me into the mess of writing in the first place, and tenderness prevented me from long-term cynicism.
I also realized I was giving so much power to these strangers over email at the various magazines and literary agencies. They weren't Greek demigods living above the mountains, who could casually create fire and change the seasons; they were just people sitting in office chairs drinking from lipstick-stained coffee cups and hoping to catch the sunset tonight if they get out of work early enough. Perhaps they were wearing ill-fitting blazers and it's possible they dreamt of being opera singers instead of rejection-senders.
So I brought them back down to my personal earth, first by reading their emails to myself in the Strong Bad voice. Then, I began a ritual of painting each rejection letter. See below for a carousel with a few examples:
I made an altar of rejections in my bedroom (which I'm sure any expert on manifestation would advise you NOT to do), covering the surface of my dresser in a display of these happy little pathetic paintings, very often misspelling my own name for accuracy of portrayal.
Now, when I received a rejection email, it gave me a jolt of empowerment: "Thanks for the creative material!" I could mentally write back, then squirrel away the letter in a file called STUFF TO PAINT.
I wouldn't say I looked forward to the rejections, but they had maybe a single ounce less control over my feelings than they used to. And, because they were now on display, the cruelest ones were the most satisfying (and looked the funniest decorated with gleeful butterflies and flowers).
A friend (who was probably quoting Eckhart Tolle or Sesame Street or some such sage) told me, "Rejection is protection from something that wasn't meant for you."
Sometimes that can feel profound, and sometimes it can feel really annoying.
Either way, it's a spiritual spin on the greatest piece of relationship advice I know: If it's not right for them, it's not right for you.
I would also comfort myself by remembering that rejection happens to EVERYONE. Actually, scratch that: It happens to almost everyone, but I feel sorry for the few people it doesn't happen to.
Rejection is a devastating but healthy sign that you're following your authenticity and specificity: Your work (or your soul!) is not going to speak to everyone, and that's a very good thing.
I've met folks who get jobs easily, acceptance easily, and relationships easily, and guess what...they're not the brightest bulbs on the porch. They're just generally palatable to most people. So is water. So are Ikea dressers. Who cares.
I'm not trying to be mean or judgmental here; I'm trying to remind you and me that when you get rejected a lot but you still want to work, it most likely means that you have something to offer that might be a little otherworldly, something that doesn't fit in with what our particular world freely accepts at the moment.
This is tough and will always be. As much as I've been enormously lucky to get to write books, I still get rejected from opportunities I really want all the time. There are still gatekeepers and guardians of the red tape, who imply, "You're not cool/good/interesting enough for this." It never stops stinging to be unwanted.
In those moments, I remember my cluttered Rejection Altar with its jolly visual representation of all the tantalizing paths I could have allowed to take: the fashion magazine job, the music writer gig, the book nobody wanted to publish about what I learned about philosophy from 80s pop culture.
Sometimes I let it just fully break my heart: to allow myself to be in the pain of wanting something and not getting it. That can be so sad.
It can also be a nudge to remember that I don't always know what I want, as hindsight shimmers with clarity.
It was not a waste, sending in all those salivating pleas to get anybody to read anything I had to write. Life never offers only one single experience at a time. During the years when I so often cried out of discouragement and sometimes rage that I wasn't getting where I wanted to be, I also was writing more than I ever have. Sometimes I'd get overwhelmed with motivation to keep going as though I were in a movie montage set to Eye of the Tiger, with various angles of me furiously typing or scribbling into a journal while drinking coffee straight from the pot.
And sometimes I'd stop, and try to turn my attention toward things that were going well in my life at the moment: the hydrangeas in early bloom on my walk to work, my ability to comfort myself at night by cooking, and the complex conversations I'd have with friends who were also striving so hard for what felt so out of reach.
I turn to ritual when I'm feeling wedged in a tough in-between place, such as wanting to be a writer/artist but not officially being one yet.
I couldn't have known that the creation of my rejection altar was in fact my becoming; I was turning into an artist simply because I was making (a lot of) art. And I was learning a lesson that continues to be vital on my path: Nobody has more control over my creativity than I do. When I too freely give my power away, I remember how it felt to reappropriate all those rejections for my own use: to make myself laugh, to transform heartache into beauty, and to remember that I love to create things. Can't reject that!
Alert alert! I'll be doing three Facebook Lives this week, each with a short ritual for you to try.
June 21st (Tuesday), 5pm EDT: A ritual for joyful goal-making
June 23rd (Thursday), 12pm EDT: A ritual for solo travel
June 26th (Sunday), 6pm EDT: A ritual for a transition
I'd love to see you there! :)
Welcome to Out of the Blue, a weekly reflection on something that's caught my attention, and an attempt to learn deep lessons from the shallow and light wisdom from the dark. If you haven't subscribed yet, sign up for free here!