...on rejection (and how to accept it)

I had a sort of revelation whilst making my tri-weekly trek to Einstein Brothers' coffee to pay my $2.01 to Sarah (usually it's Maria) for a large coffee cup. I made my way through the physical maze in order to reach my brew, a ritual that has become sort of a skill, and was greeted (as I often am) by the spunky old guy patrolling the coffee area who constantly shouts “HOT FRESH COFFEE! COMIN' THROUGH!” It was (and still is) a day like any other.

The revelation (which I'll get to momentarily) was inspired by two things. The first being my completion of Stephen King's On Writing. The second was my recent rejection email from The Cypress Dome, which was similar enough to any other rejection email, reminiscent of a bottle-cap's infamous taunt of “Sorry, try again” spurred by yet another soda company contest.

I realized that no matter how much coffee I drink, no matter how many dead authors' names I casually drop, no matter how much classic literature I claim to read, no matter how much I tout myself as a writer, no matter how many English credits I acquire at UCF, no matter how much I brood about rejection emails, and no matter how many “favorite books” I have on my Facebook page, none of these things, or a combination of them, will make me a “good” writer.

The only way to get better is to write. Oh, and read.

Of course many of the attributes listed above are instrumental to what it is that I do. To me, “coffee” has become synonymous with “work,” and gets me “in the mood.” I have read a fair amount of classic literature, and I could have read much, much more, which helps me understand what I like and don't like and ultimately aids in shaping my style. My English courses are certainly helpful, and brooding makes for good ideas sometimes. These things are not bad things, children.

But why would I publicly proclaim my “failure” in the form of a rejection from The Cypress Dome? Wouldn't I just be better off keeping it under wraps, or simply saying something like “Well, uh, I was so busy that I forgot the deadline” and that's why you don't see Brent Barnhart's fantastic short fiction in the latest edition of the UCF literary journal?

No. You have to start somewhere, and you have to fail.

Today's topic is rejection.

Stephen King talks about as a teenager accumulating hundreds of rejection slips which he would tack to his wall. Every writing website out there with articles about dealing with rejection will tell you the exact same thing. That is, you will get rejected and you'll never make it as a writer unless you accept this. King ultimately says the same thing, and ultimately he's right.

Over the summer I went on a submitting spree, shooting out short fiction to random online journals and websites. Emphasis on "random." I received a number of rejection e-mails, actually, I was rejected from everywhere I attempted to get published. I was pretty bummed about this, although looking back on it now, it's painfully obvious why I was consistently being rejected.

It wasn't necessarily that my writing wasn't “good” (although I have polished and rewritten a number of the stories which were submitted) but that I wasn't reading the markets. I was, quite literally, shooting out my stories, but they were all shots in the dark. Also, I had this wild notion that I was above revision.

Yeah, I had no idea what I was doing. I was infatuated with the idea that I was a 19-year old writing prodigy that was ready to break onto the scene with his compelling characters and flawless dialogue.

I was so, so wrong.

Yet I managed to learn two very, very specific lessons that pertain to the art of writing as I know it.

Lesson 1: Never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never write something to specifically emulate a certain style that you think will get you published.

I did this, once. It was the first and last time.

After receiving my mass of rejections, I was determined to get published. Anyway, anyhow. I found a flash fiction website that accepted stories of 200-words or less. They also had a fairly high rate of publication and were known to get back the author within a day or two with a response. I wrote a piece about a boy who is infatuated with a piece of wood he finds while wandering around his neighborhood after a hurricane. I liked it.

But then I began reading other pieces on the website. They were “edgy.” Lots of cursing, risqué topics, juicy stuff. My story would not fly in the midst of this.

So I wrote a new story. This wasn't a big deal, at 200-words or less there isn't much love lost for the story about the boy and the piece of wood. I instead wrote a story from the perspective a young boy who is dared by his older brother to ride his skateboard down the steepest hill in the neighborhood without a helmet. The younger brother protests, yet the older brother taunts him, telling the youngster that “Helmet's are for faggots. You don't want to be a faggot, do you?” The younger brother goes through with the stunt, which we get no details of. The final lines of the story have the youngster tell the reader that, ironically, he in fact did grow up to be gay, with a “slightly noticeable scar under his right eye and no sense of smell.”

Edgy, right?

There was just one problem.

I didn't actually like the story.

I thought the idea for the story, particularly the ending, was somewhat clever. Yet it wasn't something I was proud of, which is why I didn't post the story here. “My heart wasn't in it” and all that good stuff. More or less, I was prostituting myself in hopes that I'd a snag writing credit as well as get my name immortalized in a Google search.

“Purple Skateboard” was rejected, thank God. The rejection was personalized, and was quite polite, too. The editor said that he liked the idea but my “prose needed some tightening up.” I was relieved, as I didn't want something like that to be credited to my name nor did I want it to be my first publication. It was a miserable feeling, trying to write something to appease an editor. It's probably been the most the worst experience I've had in my brief career (if you want to call it that) as a “writer.”

So yeah, never prostitute your work.

Lesson 2: Despite my rejections, I learned that somebody out there, whether it be a disembodied illusion or crazed editor, actually likes my work.

In the midst of my rejections, I got a few personalized ones. I sort of mentioned this earlier. Stephen King mentions that personalized rejections are your best friends, more or less because you get some sort of insight as how you can improve.

I loved getting personalized rejections. I think I got three out of something like fifteen. The reason I loved them was because it felt like someone was actually reading my work. Most rejections, as I mentioned earlier, are copy-and-pasted from the editor. Basically “thanks for submitting, but we're going to pass.” I got a few that said to submit again, which is encouraging. These sorts of rejection are somewhat in the middle between personalized and generic, and while they still feel somewhat robotic in their approach, the whole “submit again” line usually means that the editor(s) saw some sort of promise in your work.

There was one rejection in particular that was a great deal of help to me. The response was something like a paragraph long, explaining to me what they liked and didn't like. I was quite grateful and utterly surprised that anyone would take the time to let me know exactly what they liked and didn't. Most editors seem like they're too busy to do so, that or they just like to put up that illusion.

The editor basically told me that they couldn't sympathize with the main character of my story. I reread the story to see what he was talking about and realized that my protagonist could easily be mistaken for an antagonist (especially when the character of the actual antagonist is a writer, therefore an editor would be more keen on sympathizing with her). So yeah, I kind of screwed that one up. I've since edited the story and now it makes considerably more sense.

Yet aside from the criticism, I got a compliment. This compliment has stuck with me, and I've gotten a similar compliments from professors, peer editing sessions, and friends alike.

Here's what dear editor had to say:

“I liked all the dialogue very much (you have no idea how many writers simply sum up events without any conversation at all).“

If you want to make my day, don't compliment my glasses or new business card. Compliment my dialogue. Maybe I'm riding my high-horse here, but writing dialogue is probably my favorite part of writing my respective stories and it seems to be everyone's favorite part of reading them. The knowledge that this editor enjoyed my dialogue, despite the rejection, is affirmation that I'm doing something right. Not only that, the editor also implied that I could do something better than other writers could.

The point is, rejection is healthy and in the end I've found it to be motivation in disguise. Try again. Try harder. Do better. You probably can.

And as lame as it sounds, as least I can say I tried. I'm still making my attempts, slowly but surely. You could be the best writer ever, sure, but that amounts to beans if nobody is reading your work.

Either that or I could always take the Salinger approach and lock everything I write in a safety deposit box where it shall remain until my death.

(And if you're reading this J.D. (and I know that you are), you know that I love you. I hope you never die, really. At the same time, I'm one of the many among your legion of fans that wants to get my grubby mitts on the rest of your work. It's a serious love-hate relationship.)

But yeah, rejection. Love it, hate it. Embrace it.

...regrettably (or not)

(This post began as a four-hundred word diatribe about broccoli. This has been omitted, however, because I realized that it had NOTHING to do with what the bulk of what this post was about. Rest assured, I'll save it for another day.)

Everyone has regrets. I'm making a generalization, sure. But first, let me explain.

I thought about the word “regret” a few days ago (during a spell of brooding, I assure you). Immediately I recalled two very different songs of very separate time periods. The lyrics are as follows:

Regrets, Ive had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption. - “My Way” (Frank Sinatra, 1969)

Maybe I've forgotten
The name and the address
Of everyone I've ever known.
It's nothing I regret. - “Regret” (New Order, 1993)

I enjoy both songs immensely, although I think I'm partial to New Order. However, I'll give Ol' Blue Eyes his due. He admits that he's had his regrets. New Order frontman Bernard Summer, however, seems to assert that he doesn't have any regrets. I find that hard to believe.

There's a philosophy that gets thrown around a lot, especially by famous actors or musicians. It's the idea that one has no “regrets” because if things happened differently, well, they wouldn't be the successful fatcat that they are today. Basically it's the whole “butterfly effect” business.

I used to subscribe to this, and to an extent I still do. A sour friendship or poor decision makes for great writing material. Without my various mistakes, mishaps, and setbacks, well, I would probably be lacking a good number of words to fill the proverbial page.

However, when I look back at my high school junior self I have an immense regret. I more or less flipped the bird to Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mark Twain, that chick who wrote The Awakening, and numerous other American literary authors. Now here I am some three years later, kicking myself in the head because I'm ironically majoring in English Literature and have admittedly have a very poor foundation of “classic” American Lit. I instead opted to focus on Lightspeed Academy (band), cookies, and professional wrestling. I regret not paying attention and basically wasting possibly one of the most important academic years of my life.

But do I? What if that energy I spent writing that riveting bassline (please, smell the sarcasm) was spent on The Scarlet Letter? Do I want to know? Would a song not have been completed which would have impaired us playing a show which therefore impaired the progress of the band which would have led to an early breakup? Would I still be friends with my former bandmates had I not?

Like I said, it's that butterfly effect business.

The fact is, though, that I do regret it. I can twist it all I want with all the “what if's” but the fact is that I really would be better off now had I tried harder. In reality I could have easily managed both, but I was lazy.

(Although I do get a kick out of that time I got an 8.5/10 on my essay on Ethan Frome with no knowledge of the book other than a word of mouth summary. I really do empathize with the people who actually read it and did worse, because I now know the feeling and it's pretty terrible.)

Listen. People will constantly say whatever they can to justify their position in life, whether it be their happiness or choices, as long as it's in their favor. Nobody wants to be wrong or admit that they might be wrong. These people, I suppose, do not have regrets. Is this a good or bad thing? I don't have the authority to judge because I tend to be one of those people to tries to constantly justify their shortcomings. Yet I've also come to realize that the whole “admitting you have a problem” business perhaps isn't all garbage after all.

So I suppose whether or not you have regrets is completely up to you. I guess that's what I'm getting at.

The real question, though, is whether or not Mark Twain will ever forgive me.

...the Internet (yes, I wrote it)

One of the first things I recall learning upon entering the collegiate realm was that “Internet” is a proper noun. Simply writing “internet” generates that nagging red line that Microsoft Word (or OpenOffice) loves to taunt us with.

I also recall an anecdote from Mr. Cobb concerning the Internet. He claimed that his father didn't use the Internet simply because he had “no use” for it. If he needed to know or remember something he would ponder it for a few days, and if that didn't produce results he'd make his way to the library.

It's a simple little story that's probably not uncommon among older generations.

Yet the tale of the elder Cobb crosses through my mind often, usually while I'm browsing Wikipedia. It's funny how Wikipedia has become the “dirty little secret” of the college classroom. You dare not speak its name while discussing research, that is unless you're prepared to endure the cries of “IT'S NOT AN ACADEMIC RESOURCE ANYONE CAN EDIT IT” from students and professors alike. They're right, too. Conversely, we all use it on our own, non-academic time. I don't know exactly what I'm getting at here, I guess it's just an observation.

Now, back to the Internet.

There's a fairly famous article out there that is common in Composition classes about how the Internet has “killed” academic research. I would agree, to the extent, which is why the Wikipedia tangent is somewhat relevant. I truly hope that the current slew of high school English teachers are beating kids over the head with rulers, or at least are beating the one's that try to directly cite the holy entity of Wikipedia. I also have faith that it's been beaten into the heads of our current Education majors and future teachers.

Otherwise, the future could look like this:

My Report on Barack HUSSEIN Obama (by Timmy the 9th Grader)

Barack Obama was born in Honolulu, Hawaii (Wikipedia). He is the 44th President of the United States (Wikipedia). He secretly hates America (HowBarackObamaWon.com). Also, RON PAUL RON PAUL RON PAUL (RonPaulRevolution.com).

You get the point, I think.

I guess what I'm getting at is that the Internet is a big fat love-hate relationship.

By the way, I hate referring to the Internet as the “Internet.” Isn't it eerie that we have to remember to capitalize “Internet” sort of like we're taught to always capitalize “God?” Maybe it's just me. But it has become it's own deity, hasn't it?

I guess it's ironic that I'm bitching about the entity that allows me to post what I'm writing and allows you read it. That's fine, though. That's the “love” side of my relationship with the Internet.

I sort of had an epiphany today concerning the information superhighway (wow, I'm genuinely surprised “superhighway” doesn't warrant a spell-check error). I realize that books will most likely suffer the same fate as music at the hands of the mighty Internet. Depending on how you look at it, the Internet “killed” the music industry. Some might say was “revolutionized.” I see both sides of the coin. Album sales are abysmal, yes. But touring is where the money is at, really.

Although I still can't fathom why you'd buy a CD through iTunes opposed to a hard copy. It destroys the entity of the “album.” I want my jewel case. I want my cover art and my booklet (the Alone II booklet was practically an autobiography). I want something tangible. I want to have memories of my sophomore self, giddy with excitement, riding in the car with my brother to Best Buy to purchase our separate copies of Antics. I want to call my mom while at work asking her to check to see if K-Mart has Icky Thump because apparently nowhere else has put it on the shelves yet.

I don't want songs. I want an album. Yes, there's a difference.

Regardless, I fear that books will suffer the same fate. I will be the grumpy old man who spits on e-book readers. However, in this “green” age I understand that books seem somewhat impractical when the text could easily be put online (in Stephen King's On Writing he jokes about people complaining that the publication of one of his novels amounts to the demise of a small Canadian forest). Understandable, yes. Although I can't stand reading long fiction on a screen. That's my problem, though, and I'll have to come with terms with it in the future. That's the direction we're going in. It'll take a while, sure. But slowly we're seeing literary journals and periodicals making the transition from print to exclusively being online. I imagine the catalyst for all this will be when Apple and Microsoft invest go head to head in the e-book reader battle. I'm sure they will if they haven't already begun.

Although I must admit, I love me some Project Gutenberg.

Perhaps movies will be able to fight the good fight. Sure, streaming and downloading and piracy runs rampant, but I can't imagine it amounting to sustainable losses. That could just be my naivety, though.

But yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this. You've created a monster, Al Gore.

...an apathetic account (on apathy)

I wrote my fair share of articles during my brief stint as editor-in-chief of the Arnold High School Hook. It was a floundering publication to say the least, and by the time it flopped it's way into my arms there was little I (or anyone else) could do to save it. Being editor was a bittersweet chapter in my proverbial history, party because everyone felt the paper was doomed to fail, but also that my tenure as editor did not live up to the greatness of my brother's reign alongside the much wittier class of 2005.

(That being said, those of you that stood by me and made my last semester at Arnold High School a memorable and enjoyable one, I thank you. I couldn't have done it without the seven or eight of you who actually had their junk together. Hell, I'd even thank those who didn't care whatsoever. Your charm overshadows your failure as journalists)

But this is not the point at all.

I distinctly remember writing a particular article, an editorial, about apathy. It was very broad and all over the place, I attempted to emulate some sort of Vonnegut-esque critique of the world and basically rambled how nobody cared about anything. Pretty general stuff, although I'm sure at the time I found myself to be fairly profound. Regardless, the article ran and nobody cared. Is that the definition of irony?

No, because the article really wasn't that good to begin with .Sadly the paper was dead, article or not. Nobody had any reason to care about my little rant. Although it is sort of funny when you think about it.

But once again, this is not the point.

I watched the inauguration yesterday, just like you probably did. I stood in front of a random television in the University of Central Florida student union, surrounded by my peers and the like. Together we nodded and clapped and sneered when appropriate. I saw people of all ages, colors. It was a sort of celebration that can be usually found at the end of your feel-good ABC Original Movie.

But hey, look. It's Obama. I voted for that guy. He's President now. My weekly rituals of debating and Chris Matthews and worrying about Sarah Palin actually feel like they amounted to something. It feels good.

There were still a good number of people pushing through the crowds of students glued to the television. “Excuse me” and “Outta my way” and all that business. I pondered why they couldn't stop for a second and smell the roses. There's a new President. His last name is Obama and he's black. It's kind of a big deal. This is the sort of thing you'll be able to impress your grandkids with while you're wheelchair bound and eating mush.

I watched Obama talk about “change” and hard work. Sacrifices. The sort of stuff that most of us know little to nothing of. I thought about how apathetic our generation is (this is nothing new) and how I'm just as guilty as anyone else as being part of the “lazy” masses. Of course there are those much lazier than myself, but that's not the point.

Here's the big question:

How do you appeal to people who just don't care about anything?

I realize that “anything” is a broad term (in fact, if you picked up a thesaurus you'd probably find them in the same category, so, in a sense, “anything” is the broadest term on the block).

It sounds difficult, but I gave it a decent amount of thought. To appeal to the apathetic you must fight fire with fire. Or in this case, apathy with apathy.

We're a generation (or perhaps a society) that loves the “slacker.” We can find hints of our introverted teenage rebellion in Holden Caulfield. I compel you to find a Myspace page that doesn't have Fight Club under “Favorite Movies” (or books, sure). Beneath the flannel jacket, strapped to the chest and closest to the heart of every chain-smoking, acid-dropping college student that looks like they may very well be homeless is a dog-eared copy of On the Road.

But yes, the slacker. We root for him, cheer for him, we want him to get his way and find happiness without lifting a finger.

This seems to be the new American dream.

I'm not saying that this is a good or bad thing, either. I personally wouldn't mind it, and I can't decide whether or not that should scare the hell out of me. I'd love to to think that if I came upon infinite riches I'd continue to try the whole “writer” thing out. Another, darker side of me thinks that I'd probably wind up eating Turkish delight until I exploded.

...satire (or something like it)

Your typical English major is a pretentious creature. We are above your books, music, clothing, lifestyle choice, sexual preference, wallpaper, and favorite flavor of jellybean. You probably have your own stereotype in mind, and the truth is that it's probably true enough. “Art emulates life” and all that Oscar Wilde mess, you know? See what I did there? I just name-dropped a famous Victorian author. See what I did there? I just name dropped a famous literary time period. Holy shit. I am English major, hear me write. Fear my diction.

Our entitlement to being above everything comes in the fact that we read books, or rather, we still read books while the rest of the world sits in front of their television sets or whatever it is that normal people do. Yes, we read all the time. All the time. For us, there is a very limited set of activities to partake in outside of reading.

There's writing, of course.

If we aren't busy scribbling our rants against humanity or our free-verse poetry, we're most likely making and/or drinking our coffee that gives us the fuel that we need to take our cigarette breaks that give us our best ideas like writing that story about that time you were at social event X and all your friends were having a great time except for you because you're the only one who understands how the world is such an awful place and can't comprehend how anyone could smile or laugh when things are the way they are.

We have no aspirations. We don't really want to be in college at all, because it's full of phonies. We don't really need higher education anyhow, as we already read on our own and write better than everyone else we know. In reality we'd rather be having our Kerouacian adventure somewhere else. But we'll get our fancy schmancy degree so mom and dad don't totally disown us. We acknowledge that a degree in our field is completely useless and have no qualms with floating around doing “whatever” after graduation because the world doesn't understand us, degree or not.

Let me break the fourth wall for a moment. Why am I writing this?

Good question. I think it might very well be some sort of therapy. I find solace in my ability to laugh at myself and believe that somehow that makes me a slightly better person/ student. Day by day I find myself surrounded by people who take themselves far too seriously, sincerely believe that their personal tragedy trumps your personal tragedy, and are just plain annoying. I try to keep myself in check and reassure myself that I'm not going down the path which transforms me into a pretentious tool.

I was slightly inspired by this, as well.

(Plus, Stephen King suggests 4-6 hours of reading/writing a day. I've discovered a newfound respect for Mr. King, but that's a whole new post in the making, folks)

Wow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8uw6D9nTPY

Because William Dean Howells, Christine de Pizan, and E. M. Forster aren't giving me much time to say anything else.

I got my domain.

Isn't it nifty?

Brent pokes at Pier Park

I'm meeting my "writing quota" for the day with all of this.

I considered writing a rant about Pier Park as a piece for the News Herald, granted they'd publish it. But alas, no such effort was made until now and I'm back in Orlando. That's right, I'm back (for whomever it may concern). There's no particular event that occurred in Panama City Beach that I'd like to discuss or dwell on. Conversely, there's nothing I expected to happen that didn't happen, mostly because I've come to know what to expect.

This isn't my "stake in the heart" towards PCB. This isn't a "my brain is bigger than yours" or "my city is better than yours" rant. The reality is that PCB is my hometown no matter how you twist it, and it's where I grew up. And thus there is an inevitable love-hate relationship between us.

Speaking of love-hate relationships, let's talk get down to business. Pier Park.

I (once again, inevitably) spent a good chunk of my time during my break at Pier Park. It's nice to have a place to go and simply walk around (awkwardly running into people) and enjoy the weather. It's truly impressive to see Pier Park come to fruition and become what it was meant to be.

That being said, why does it feel like everyone there is staring holes through you? What generates the hostility that oozes off of any given passer-by? I suppose that Pier Park isn't the ideal stomping ground for the lone, white American introvert. I was hard-pressed to find someone who didn't look like their intention for the night was to look like they were among the most important group in the city.

Borders was my saving grace, naturally. A bookstore/coffeehouse combination is ideal for your typical reading/writing type. But even then there were droves of people with their proverbial noses in the air, ordering their lattes and gossiping their lives away. Hell, even your token redneck has become victim of the latte plague. They sort of just sit around, awkwardly watching others around them making sure they're getting their sipping patterns just right. Sorry, I'm just not a latte person. I'll take the classic stuff any day. It's cheaper, too.

So why didn't I just send my time doing something else? Because nowadays if you're not at Pier Park you're either working or getting drunk. That's a joke, folks. Well, sort of. Pier Park is what it is, and it's not going to change for me. It's serving its purpose.

It seems like this rant is asking for trouble or a rebuttal. But really, I'm not complaining. I had fun during my break, actually. More fun than I expected.

But there's nothing quite like coming home to a city that has a Wal-Mart with more than one open line and delicious Jimmy Johns' sandwiches.