I woke up to a baker’s dozen this morning – not bagels or donuts, which are the last things I need, but to my thirteenth rejection of my novel. Something I definitely didn’t want, but maybe something I do need.
The lion’s share of the rejections came a few years earlier. One was from an editor who who requested a full (yay!) at an SCBWI conference critique. Others were from critiques and queries. After some time, I put it away and started on a new WIP, which is now sitting in a cyber drawer on my computer, collecting virtual dust and stewing for a possible revival. I also went through a writer’s depression, which almost always becomes a life depression because we cannot truly separate our souls from the craft. There were other happenings that weighed me down, dark times made only darker because I not only wasn’t writing, I also denied myself the identification as a writer, thereby denying part of who I essentially am. It wasn’t the best of times, nor was it the worst as I had my family and a life that I knew I was blessed to have. God ushered me through the darkness and I firmly believe that had I not gone through it, my faith would not be as strong and allowed to flourish. I was humbled, I was forgiven, I was loved. I am closer to Him now than I ever was and strive to be closer each day.
I recommitted myself to my writing. All good things, including dreams and desires, come from God. I have been given the gift of writing. This is not AT ALL saying I am a gifted writer. Please. The talent that others possess is mind blowing and, if you are a lover of words, inspiring. But it is saying that He has given me the treasure of loving the process of writing and creating characters and stories that sing from the heart. He wants me to use it and has instilled in me a desire to find an agent and be published. Does that mean it is destined to happen? No. But it does mean I am destined to try.
So, while I have had a couple of recent rejections, they don’t devastate me like they used to. I actually appreciate the kindly crafted letters, even if they are form. Most agents aren’t these meanies, sitting in their offices gleefully stamping manuscripts with a big fat no as they imagine the tragic looks on wannabe authors’ faces. They are generally nice people who have jobs to do and lives to live, just like the rest of us.
I am guaranteed many, many more rejections. Far more gifted writers’ incredibly crafted books have been rejected more times than I can count. Even Madeleine L’Engle and Patricia MachLachlan were rejected – and this came after stunning success. Why, in heaven’s name, would I not be?
The answer is I wouldn’t and won’t be. And I thank God for that.