The Doctor is In

Friday + Dr. S O'D = Writer's Therapy

I sometimes give workshops and seminars in my Brooklyn Heights office on topics of interest to writers. If you would like to be notified about upcoming events, email me at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Dear Dr. Sue,

As a writer who had achieved little success for over fifteen years, I had grown used to rejection letters. Sometimes they made me cry, sometimes they made me doubt myself, and once in a while they made me feel helpless and enraged. Recently, success has, by the graces of the Gods and angels, come my way. I am no longer worth "nothing" on the market, I have had what, by some standards, is both luck and reward.

Recently, I proposed an article to a well-known magazine about a very important experience I had with a famous older writer who championed my work and was instrumental in the publication of my first book. I had thought this article would bring hope to many writers, show them alternative ways they might finally find publication and "success"--I had meant it as an offering, a story of keeping faith and endurance that might inspire others. I sent the proposal to a magazine that claims to be for and about struggling writers, our ordeals, our anxieties, and tribulations.

The response I got back pushed some button I never knew I had. Perhaps, of course, all those years of bitter-tasting rejection started gurgling up like a giant burp inside me and I had to let that burp out--it would have combusted and exploded my guts. But the issues for me, as just a writer, were: how much is a writer supposed to take? I mean, when is ENOUGH ENOUGH? When can a writer fire off, at long last, a reaction, a human response, and fight back to a cold rejection, written with no sensitivity or care? When does integrity come into play, or are we forever at the mercy of whatever editorial response someone feels is justified and convenient for them?

I understand editors are harried people. That they can't always respond kindly or in depth. But they are also paid people. We writers write these proposals for no money, and nothing is there for us unless, if we're lucky, some magazine is going to pay us and then that barely pays for the mailing expenses and time we spent writing to send off the accepted piece.

What are the issues here? I mean, really. I thought it would be of some interest to others. I don't know if what I did was wrong. Perhaps it sounds like an egotistical and neurotic response. But I did think it through and decided, for me, I had to let that big burp out or it would burn a hole in my heart! And that's an organ I can't spare

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

I believe you speak for many writers. In writing and publishing, as in most businesses, the grunt workers—the ones whose labor lines everyone’s pockets and keeps the whole machine operating—are on the lowest rung when it comes to compensation and prestige. Of course there are a few “stars” whose proposals and manuscripts are uniformly treated with deferential care—but not nearly as many as you might think. Since I started working with writers, I have been shocked by some of the humiliating experiences related to me by well known authors I assumed had left the form rejection experience behind long ago.

Writers’ complaints are often met with incredulity by those outside the field. “It’s not coal mining,” we’re reminded, and of course it isn’t. Most of us don’t routinely put ourselves in physical danger. The worst on-the-job injury we’re likely to suffer is carpal tunnel syndrome. (This is not to disparage the difficulty of coping with CTS, just to acknowledge that it’s not black or white lung, radiation poisoning, or one of the many other life-threatening occupational hazards other workers are subjected to.) But we are seldom reprimanded this way by an air traffic controller, a nurse’s aide, or a firefighter—workers whose jobs most of us would concede are much harder. In my experience, the criticism usually comes from white-collar professionals and office workers, whose jobs aren’t coal mining either. The feeling seems to be that the difficulty of the work is equivalent, but we get to stay home in our pajamas to do ours, so what are we griping about?

What isn’t taken into consideration is the constant emotional toll of isolation, rejection and financial insecurity. People who work in offices grow used to considering themselves insiders. They may gripe about backstabbing co-workers, but most also count on team support for important projects, and the value of colleagues who can share experience, empathy and expertise on the spot can’t be underestimated. In times of illness or family crisis, most can take time off while continuing to draw a paycheck and without worrying whether the job will still be there a few weeks later. And while layoffs and job hunting can be emotionally devastating, for the same reasons rejection letters can be, for most workers they are not weekly occurrences, and usually, sooner or later, the worker will find another perch and settle there for a few years—and though rejection for a psychologist position, for example, can be painful and frustrating, it’s usually been clear to me that it’s my professional experience, and not my soul, that’s “not quite right” for the desired position. (And let’s not even go into health benefits and pension plans.)

Anecdotally, at least, writers are unusually subject to anxiety, depression, and substance abuse. While the reasons for any individual’s misery are complex and multidetermined, I don’t think it’s possible to discount the contribution of this constant reminder of our outsider status to the wear and tear on our psyches. Yes, we choose to do this (as we’re also often reminded), insofar as anyone “chooses” a vocation, but most of us who persevere in spite of the insane odds and crazymaking conditions pay a higher price than we often recognize ourselves—until a seemingly innocuous incident pushes us over the edge.

It sounds like that’s what happened to you. Perhaps, after suffering stoically for all those years, you were seduced by your recent success into letting your guard down a bit, and were thrown off-balance by this rejection. Maybe it felt like the older writer who championed your work was being disrespected as well, and you found this unbearable. Whatever the immediate cause, your reaction is understandable.

Keep in mind, though, that if there’s a bad guy here, it’s probably not the editor you “burped” on.

Before returning to school, I was a magazine editor for five years. I worked in confession magazines, but from what other editors have told me, the conditions are fairly constant across genres. I loved my job, but it barely afforded me time to breathe. I was often in the office until 9 at night, racing to meet deadlines, and then I brought work home with me. I was always overwhelmed with submissions, and I rejected many manuscripts that were beautifully and carefully written—including some that I would have snapped up gratefully if we hadn’t just published something too similar—with form letters. For a while, we ran a column featuring photographs of readers’ babies. Believe me, every single picture was adorable, and, I’m sure, as meaningful to the parent as our manuscripts can possibly be to us—and every month, I sent back hundreds, with rejection slips. If I had taken the time to write a personal note to everyone who deserved it, I’d still be writing them, 25 years later. The only way to get the magazine out every month was to focus on the material that was actually going into it, and be ruthless about the rest. When people whose work I’d sent back objected to this “cold-hearted” treatment—and this did happen—I understood, but the alternative was to sit on their manuscripts for several months or even years, and that wouldn’t have made them any happier.

I think most editors are like I was—sympathetic, but helpless. Chances are even pretty good that your “burp” was read by another aspiring writer who wishes things were different. I’d be careful, though, about repeating such an outburst. Your frustration is justified, but there are plenty of good writers out there who don’t rock the boat, and an already harried editor may choose not to work with one who is perceived as difficult and unprofessional, as unfair as this may be.

I don’t have an answer to the larger questions you raise, as important as they are. A mass uprising by writers demanding better conditions seems unlikely. Short of that, most writers will probably remain underpaid and ill-treated in our lifetime. What we can do is share our experiences and support one another, helping to provide the validation and community that other workers take for granted.

Susan O’Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers. Her book, Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Outsmarting Procrastination, Writer's Block, and Other Obstacles to Living a Creative Life, will be published by Seal Press this spring. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Susan Messer]

Great answer, Dr. Sue. And great question. This is a subject I am very interested in, in the context of writing and in other corners of life as well. Almost everyone has felt this at some time--that the slight is intolerable, the last straw, that it must be addressed. In my experience, "the burp," though perhaps necessary, is rarely fully cathartic. It doesn't mean we can or should hold it in, just that it may have consequences. For each person, the ability to hold the slighted feeling in differs, as do the feelings that follow.

[katharine weber]

One does wonder what exactly this "burp" was -- a vicious reply to the rejection? Responding to being wronged or rejected with an immature and unprofessional response does nothing to enhance the chances of being taken seriously.

[Nandini]

I'm still at the stage where every rejection letter I get is something positive, a notch on my literary belt, a sign that I've been writing and submitting (which is what's important right now).

However, almost every non-form-letter rejection I have receieved is rude - one of them breathtakingly so. I quote: "If you don't learn not to waste editors' time writing a mediocre reproduction of an article published [underline]just last month[/underline], you will never make it as a professional in the business." (The editor conveniently ignored the fact that my article was written and submitted at least three weeks before their "last month"'s issue came out.)

There really is no excuse for such rudeness. I wrote a scathing, yet excruciatingly polite letter and then tore it up because I couldn't send it without risking payback from this crazy @#$&@. I've just added this magazine to the (very short) list of places I will never submit to again.

I don't know if I could or even *should* take this sort of treatment throughout my career. Quite apart from my hurt feelings, there is also the question - would this sort of unprofessionalism fly anywhere but here? Why should editors be exempt from having to extend common courtesy to other professionals in their field?

[Dr.Sue]

Susan, Katharine, and Nandini--thanks for your insightful comments, which illustrate the complexity of this issue. As Katharine and Susan point out, responding to a slight from the gut can have negative consequences for one's career, but, Nandini, I have gotten a few (fortunately, very few) of those abusive comments myself--the most outstanding being from the editor of a literary journal whose guidelines I'd misunderstood and who wrote to tell me I was dishonest and immoral for having multiply submitted after I wrote to withdraw a poem that had been accepted elsewhere. Three years later, it still stings. I try to remind myself that there are disturbed and unreasonable people in every field, but they're not the norm, and even these off-the-wall comments are more likely to spring from exhaustion and frustration (an editorial "burp") than from a policy of purposely abusing writers.

Psychologists are notoriously conservative in behavioral recommendations, though, whatever our politics might be. We deal in individual adjustment, not social revolution, and my primary concern is to keep any particular writer from shooting herself in the foot. If others have more global solutions, I would love to read them.

[Peter L. Winkler]

"I’d be careful, though, about repeating such an outburst. Your frustration is justified, but there are plenty of good writers out there who don’t rock the boat, and an already harried editor may choose not to work with one who is perceived as difficult and unprofessional, as unfair as this may be."

But this editor, by abusively rejecting this writer's proposal, has already chosen to work with others. By responding in kind to the editor, the writer has risked nothing, since the editor didn't like the proposal and most likely wouldn't respond differently to this writer in the future even if they had remained silent.

[Jennie]

As a veteran rejectee, I sympathize, but I'm confused about the content of the rejection--was it simply a "not right for our publication" form letter, or was it actually rude?

I don't think there's any solution to the problem of particularly upsetting rejections--whether rude or form--but there's a little book called "Rotten Rejections" that offers examples of rejections to famously successful writers & books. (On Animal Farm: "It is impossible to sell animal stories in the U.S.A.") It can be a comfort.

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