...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.

...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)

Brent defends Disney.

I feel that while this isn't direly important, it needs to be on the table.

Disney gets a lot of hate. These days it's seems that the name"Disney" has essentially because synonymous with "corporate juggernaut" or "teenage exploitation factory" or "soul-sucking entity" and the like.

I've slowly become a frequenter of the Disney parks. There are many Orlando residents who do the same. Investing in an Annual Pass is a pretty good idea, considering you basically pay a (discounted) flat fee and have somewhere you can go anytime you desire without having to pay for anything (except for food.) Don't have anything to do? Let's go to Disney World. Just walk around for a while. For free. Meanwhile you get to see all walks of life, people from other countries, and families acting genuinely happy. All rare things to see these days.

Back to the original point. I think that people forget that Disney is not just Disney Channel. It's not Miley Cyrus and Zac Efron parading around trying to steal money out of your wallet and devour your imagination.

It's funny, because the whole "corporate juggernaut" entity certainly is there, and I've noticed that it seems to be a tongue-in-cheek sort of joke with a lot of the employees. Anyone with any sense knows that, yes, Disney is trying to sell you merchandise pretty much everywhere you turn. And, sure enough, people (usually tourists) will buy it and it works. Disney does shove the business aspect of their entity in your face. But it's up to the dear park guest not to give in. The fact is that they know how to make money, they do make money, they will continue to make money, and, once again, it works. And people hate it. I've accepted it.

I was always a Universal Studios kid when I was younger. But going back to Disney now that I'm older I've found that all of the attractions that I once found "boring" or "educational" now catch my attention. Plus I enjoy the atmosphere, I guess. It's just a fun place to be.

The second (and most common) complaint about Disney is that "it's not what it used to be." It's true. Time's have changed, sure. The "newer" movies such as The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, and other Pixar creations aren't exactly the traditional heartwarming tales that we grew up with, and they may focus more on the entertainment aspect of things, but I'll be damned if they aren't fantastic films. When we think of Disney as an innovator of "art" we think of films such as Fantastia. Look at Wall-E. It managed to break so many aethetic and "normal" conventions in the world of animation just as Disney's older work. Sure, we grew up on The Lion King and Alladin, as well as the other various films of the "Disney Renissance." Watch them again. You'll still be amazed.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess it's my response to the awkward and cynical comments I get when I tell people that I go to Disney and still have fun. Yes, I know that we're college students that are supposed to (as Eddie Murphy once said) party all the time (party all the time, party all the time.) Our collective should be putting rings in our noses and getting tribal tattoos. We should be shaking our fists and yelling at things. I have nothing against that. I enjoy the conventional, "college" fun. But the social scene this semester just isn't the same as it used to be. The climate has changed. I've found myself spending my weekends with Mickey Mouse, or perhaps colorful characters and sounds (concerts) of Downtown Orlando (some hobos, too) and truly enjoying myself. Although Ticketmaster fees and I-4 can be a bit of a drag. But there really is nothing like rushing back to a parking garage after a show with a crowd of people, irrationally (or maybe not) fearing the random hobos and bar patrons on your 1/3 mile trek.

On a completely unrelated note, I spent all week trying to find a fan. Yes, a fan. But apparently fans "aren't in season." Heaters are, though. We found one at Wal-Mart, which was probably the first place we should have tried. But really, fans aren't one of those things that "go out of season." This is Florida. Come on.

I gave up

I gave up on NaNoWrimo. I wrote about 2,400 words in the first day and it pretty much bottomed out from there. Better than nothing. Between the election, sickness, and school, well, it was just too much.

I want to try to update this more regularly. I've been trying to keep up the blog on Myspace which and that hasn't flown so well either.

In academic news, I've finally encountered Paradise Lost. It was something that had to happen eventually, like some sort of big awkward meeting that you want to avoid. It's pretty interesting stuff, but I must admit I've had much more than my regular dose of poetry and plays this semester. Maybe the "older" stuff will grow on me, but I'm still wary of it at this point. Right now I'm just anxious to get take some classes that truly delve into the 20th century. Getting to (re)read Ender's Game (for a class, nonetheless) is like a prayer answered. Man cannot live on Milton/Shakespeare/Chaucer/Wordsworth/Keats/Tennyson/Wilde alone!

Actually, many of my peers would probably argue that last point.

I need to pump out some new short stories but the end of the month. It might be my shining moment of publication. Yes, it's by the UCF literary journal. But that's better than nothing, dammit.