Wednesday
Google alerts me when I am mentioned in a blog. I love that. Maybe two months ago, I received the alert, clicked on the link, and found that a form rejection I'd sent as the SmokeLong Quarterly Lead Editor had been posted on a blog with the heading: Untitled, by Randall Brown.
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I didn't know what to make of it, seeing it there, untitled (the impersonal) attached to my name (the personal). I'd learned early on not to take rejections personally (as a writer) and came (as a writer) to love the impersonality of the rejection note, a reminder that whatever led to the rejection had (very) little to do with me.
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When people search my name on Google, an event that happens perhaps too infrequently to worry about, this link will come up and they will find this form rejection. They might think of the form rejection's opposite—the personal rejection—and think of me as that kind of opposite, someone who took an impersonal interest in not only this submission but in many submissions. Or maybe they won't think that at all.
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I've spoken before here about what I think rejections mean (that someone at the journal didn't love a story enough to publish it). My own use of the form rejection as an editor over other forms has to do with (1) the recognition of the subjectivity at work in these accept/reject decisions and (2) the rejection of the notion that my opinion should in any way matter in the evolution of this piece. In other words, I've always thought the form rejection kind of speaks for itself, and I'd come to love that about it, its refusal to engage writers in what someone thinks or doesn't think of a story.
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But seeing that form letter I had sent (one doesn't write form letters; one sends them) made me feel sad. Oddly so. I don't know. It still has me a bit unloosened. A writer works on a story, puts something personal and meaningful into it, labors on it, chooses me to send it to and I send back a form letter. In that light, seeing it there, made me feel not so great about it all. Of course, feelings such as these are ever-changing, and I might see it all quite differently in the days and weeks to come. But that was my initial feeling: Yikes, I thought. Is that what it is like to send work to me? And should it be something other? And what might the alternatives be? "Jeez," I thought. "What have I have been doing?" I guess that's good in a way, to see things anew, but it's unsettling. And so, I guess, that's today's therapy session and maybe it ends with a question, "What (as writers and/or editors) are we to make of the form rejection letter?"
From Antonios
September 23, 2009 at 4:35 pm
This is a great question, Randall, and a gutsy one at that. As readers or editors should we even be putting ourselves through this, getting personal about what we go through when we realize, yup, this one will be a form reject? Part of me says no, we don’t need to explain ourselves, or give the skinny on what it’s like for us. We do this for free(a kind of lame excuse because we wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t get back something from the process). We do this out of love(again, lamo!), lamo, but true. When does the love thing happen… when we get a near-miss or an obvious work of art fall into our laps. That’s exactly when the late hours and bleary eyes seem worth it. Everything else, sadly, seems a chore. Should this last statement of mine somehow come back and hit me square in the face? Hell, no! I’ve sent plenty of unfinished, ill-thought out, ill-conceived, puppy drivel to fill a tall filing cabinet. You have to be grown up to read for a magazine. You have to realize that even the form rejects are part of the process of becoming a writer who’s learned how to crack his own whip and not keep looking over his shoulder for some muse-like creature. It’s part of the process of becoming the type of person/writer who refuses to settle for the easy endings, who thrives on the challenge, who is able, ultimately, to see cleary when and where he’s about to commit an error that will lead to a flaw others will see easily. And also, it’s part of the process of becoming your own harshest critic, absolutely necessary in becoming a writer. I’ve never once thought I was harming a writer in my response, even when it was a form reject I was sending. Have I been cursed by subbers as a reader for Vestal Review… I’ll bet yes! But at least not in a direct way, with hate mail, swear words and all. I stay true to what I’ve learned about myself and my own process, and I’m never surprised or put off, or disgusted by stories that are meant to receive the form rejects. This is someone embarked on a journey, and it’s a privilege to be a part of that journey.
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:51 pm
Thanks, Tony, for the in-depth, interesting (very!) reply.Maybe I want too much to be liked. That has (too) often been a problem for me.
From david erlewine
September 23, 2009 at 4:57 pm
i’m cool getting/sending form rejections. sometimes, they are necessary. if a story is just wrong, wrong, wrong for the journal, why go into the weeds with the writer, particularly if it appears the writer has no idea (or a misguided one) about the journal’s aesthetic.
sure, i love getting a personal rejection and sometimes the editor gives a nudge…if you make a few changes i’d love to see it again. i love that. unless it’s an insane change, i’ll make it. i have little ego that way. other writers rebuke that approach, calling it egoless, possibly subservient. to me, if an editor likes 95% of what i sent, and the 5% isn’t the heart of the story, i’m good to go making the change. usually, the change improves the story. i’ll go back to the most over the top example. steve himmer at necessary fiction took a story of mine with the condition that he had a few minor changes. i accepted. when i got his changes, some were minor but some were a bit more than that. i thought about the story, forced myself to dig/cajole/examine what my story was really about, and in the end, after the edits, the story was at least 35% better than what I’d send to him. if i’d taken the “uh, no edits, just a form rejection”…i’d probably still be sending out that weaker version, telling myself one day i’d sit down with it and really make it sing.
got a very nice rejection yesterday sayign the editors like ambiguity but my story slid into confusion. they asked if i was willing to clarify one key aspect. i said of course and just sent it back. i like the revised version better. stockholm syndrome? maybe. if so, i’m good with that. good post, randall.
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:50 pm
Hey, David. Your willingness to reconsider your work is one the things that has always impressed me about you. It’s an admirable quality. It’s weird, because I feel that (for a while now) I’m not getting better as a writer. I want to be so much better than I am and I’m not sure how to get there, or I can. I began to wonder if maybe I’d been listening to too many outside voices and had to go back into the “cave” and figure it out myself. I’m still not sure. I guess there’s a time for both kind of experiences for withdrawing and for engaging.
From Gabriel Orgrease
September 23, 2009 at 5:38 pm
I find your discomfort more interesting than the question of form rejections. Learning begins when we are no longer comfortable. As I see it the problem with rejections, either form or the vaguely ambiguous not very clear personal rejection, creates an asymmetrical indeterminate condition in which the person who sent the rejection has some idea why they sent it, and the person receiving it usually lacks sufficient objective information with which to understand and interpret it. So it may be relatively easy for the person sending any form of rejection to rationalize and get comfortable with the process – because they will have a subjective sense that they know what they are doing. But in various degrees the person receiving a rejection is likely going to end up wondering what that was about, either learning to shrug it off, trying to learn from it (which as I sense you imply can be more difficult for a recipient to deal with than a simple form of ‘no thank you’), internalizing in a pit of anxiety, hardening and bluntly moving on, or maybe not even remembering it. A person may very well be accustomed to receive rejections, or not, which will have an impression on how they perceive sending them. You catching up with the reflection of your form rejection out there in public, and the discomfort you felt in same may reveal that you are opening yourself up to a revision in how you understand the social role of an editor.
From Randall Brown
September 23, 2009 at 5:40 pm
Gabriel,
I believe you nailed it, especially that difference between the editor’s sending it and the writer’s receiving it. I do feel that sense of opening myself up to something. I’m not sure exactly what, though.
From Gabriel Orgrease
September 23, 2009 at 7:03 pm
Good that you do not know what you are opening yourself up to, often the best fun of an adventure is had when one has no clue what will happen next, it makes for the difference between a seasoned traveler and a tourist. Obviously you are not a tourist. 😉
From Trish Annese
September 23, 2009 at 10:54 pm
Randall, you’re a nice man to have even considered the ramifications of your form letter. I’m actually more interested in the person who felt it necessary to post the letter in this particular context. When you send out a piece of writing two things happen: It gets published: Yay! Or it doesn’t: Boo! I used to keep the little form rejections I received that had the hand written add-ons: “Lovely work. Try us again,” “I love what you’re working toward,” “Strong work. Maybe next time…” They made me feel good and I used to preen them periodically when I was feeling crappy about the fact that no one ever published the ‘lovely’ stories I was sending out. I would console myself with those little testaments to the effect my story had on some generous stranger out there in the world. Now I see it differently. Just tell me yes. Or just tell me no. Don’t dress it up. Don’t make it pretty. If I’m not gonna see my work in print in your magazine, I don’t really need to care what you think. Because if I listen to you when you tell me I’m good, then I have to listen to you when you tell me I’m bad. And I don’t want to give you that much power. So just tell me no. Do it in a sentence. I’m good with that. Then I don’t have to worry about the nature of good vs. bad; I only have to consider the ramifications of yes vs. no… and that’s different. So, don’t sweat it, Randall. No is no. Anyway you type it.
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:47 pm
It did bug me a lot at first that someone would post the form letter and title it and attach my name to it. Then, I began to see it a bit differently, as something kind of sad. I don’t know. But yes, I do grasp what you are saying, especially that “no is no.” My wife taught me that.
From Digby Beaumont
September 24, 2009 at 4:10 am
Trish Annese makes a great point. The wording of a form rejection makes a difference. Keep it simple. Attempts at ‘lightening’ the message, usually end up in dangerous territory.
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:45 pm
Point taken, Digby. I’ve received something that looked like a form letter from some journals, but it ended with “This is not the note we usually send out.” I kind of liked knowing that for some reason.
From mmSeason
September 24, 2009 at 10:32 am
The least nasty form rejection i’ve had was from Futurismic. It was so kind, i wish i’d kept it — both for future comfort, and to quote properly from it. It said something like, ‘Thank you for your story. I’m afraid it just doesn’t click with me this week.’ Not precisely, but it definitely felt like a personal contact (until i realised it wasn’t!) and gave the impression that it was more about the editor’s mood at the moment, than anything wrong with my writing.
Btw i can’t remember if i’d commented here before, so if i haven’t, hello! :0)
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:44 pm
Welcome. I like that phrasing: “the least nasty form letter.” So many things seem to have to be aligned for a piece to get accepted that it’s a wonder to me (still) when it happens to me.
From Bev Jackson
September 24, 2009 at 2:30 pm
You are such a nice person to consider and contemplate these kinds of things. One of the many very special things about you. I got a rejection yesterday where the editor mentioned the many, many wonderful submissions they were receiving for their anthology, and the story I sent simply was not doing it for them. (thwack in my heart!) It wasn’t a form letter…it was just somehow the wording? Or my thin skin? All these wonderful submissions and then this piece of shit? I dunno. Is there any easy way to have your child rejected? I don’t think so. But whoever said short and sweet is likely onto something.
From Randall Brown
September 25, 2009 at 1:42 pm
Thanks, Bev. I’ve got this feeling (I’m not sure why and it sounds weird saying it aloud) that I want to do “good” for writers, and I just wonder how the “form letter” fits into that desire. I remember how wonderfully you treated writers at Ink Pot.
From Ben White
September 25, 2009 at 9:14 pm
Your comment to David is interesting. I think that most people probably need periods of the cave-in (to do what you can do as only you can do it) and also of new perspectives/feedback/input (to shock you to grow). Too much of the first, you stagnate. Too much of the second, you spin in circles, losing your voice, getting nowhere.
As for form rejections, I believe you and I briefly discussed the issue in that original post. I understand the necessity of them. I’m fortunate enough at my stage that I have the energy to reject people by hand. I’m still a proponent of the multi-form. Being able to tell “good but not good enough” from “wow, not for us AT ALL. Please never again” is a significant improvement.
I think your new-found reservations come from the very real possibility that rejections can help writers and help the development of their work. Not everyone has access to readers or workshops; sometimes the rejection letter is a writer’s best chance to see what a story needs (even if most of the time it’s not). I suppose in the end, most people like being reminded that a human being took the time read their work.
From Digby Beaumont
September 27, 2009 at 9:17 am
Hey, Randall. On getting better as a writer—something that we all probably wonder (worry) about, at some times more than others: You feel it’s not happening right now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t, of course. You know that experience, where you can’t put your finger on when or why, but, looking back, you see changes, growth? You’re not sure how to get there; how have you got there before? Are there things you can learn from those times, things you can do the same? Or maybe differently this time? Isn’t that angsty-feeling an integral part of the process sometimes? I hope so. I get it often enough. All the best. Digby
From Randall Brown
October 2, 2009 at 3:10 pm
Good point. That angsty-feeling never leaves me, so I like this idea that maybe it’s a good thing.