THE DOCTOR IS IN

Dear Dr. Sue,

As the New Year kicks off, I find myself in a frenzy of cleaning and organizing.  #1 on the list of things to organize this year: all of my writing-related paperwork.  I came of age, more or less, in the age of computers, which might explain why I'm much more comfortable organizing virtual data than actual pieces of paper, but nevertheless, facing a room full of little scraps of paper leaves me completely overwhelmed.

I have a vague system right now of contracts in this pile (to be filed), publications in this pile (to be filed), receipts in this pile (to be filed), everything else in this pile (to be filed)...but I just can't figure out what to do with my rejection letters.  I feel like I should keep them, but I don't know why.  Do I really need a hard copy of a rejection letter from The Atlantic Monthly?  And if so, do I need a copy of all of my rejection letters from The Atlantic Monthly, or will a single saved rejection suffice?  It's not a matter of keeping track of my submissions; all of that information is scrupulously organized in a multi-tiered spreadsheet system on my computer (remember: better at organizing things virtually).

But when that rejection letter is hovering over the recycle bin, I just can't seem to let it go.  I don't know why that is.  I reason if I were to chuck the rejection letters, I could always get new ones quite easily if I felt remorseful afterwards...but I just can't seem to let them go.  And they're clogging up my house with paperwork.  I think it might be something about the finality of losing the piece of paper, as opposed to e-mails that I can just file and forget about and not end up with clutter.  But I'm drawing the line at scanning my hard copy rejection letters and saving them to the computer...to me, that seems just over the line of weird.

I appreciate any thoughts!  Especially when they're online and don't generate another piece of paper to end up in the clutter pile. :)

With thanks,

E

Dear E,

I wonder whether your reluctance to let go of these artifacts could be a sense that you have not sufficiently acknowledged their symbolic importance.

Pursuing a vocation as a writer usually entails accumulating large numbers of rejection slips. Writers understand that taking rejection personally is counterproductive; that the mature, adult response to the thin white envelope is to register its receipt on the spreadsheet and move on.

That mature adult, though, is not the part of ourselves that generates our most important work. It is the childish, hypersensitive, irrational aspects of our psyche that connect us with the deep, primal themes and images that drive our most powerful writing. That primitive self is woven into the manuscripts we have the highest hopes for--and that self experiences every rejection as a blood wound, no matter what we know intellectually. I suspect that it's this self that doesn't want to let the slips go.

Consider devising a ritual to commemorate discarding the slips. You may wish to burn them safely in the fireplace or the backyard, or to rip them into tiny pieces while chanting an appropriate mantra. (You can experiment with these until you find the one that allows you to relax your grip. For starters, you might want to try, "I release your negative energy into the universe and free my manuscript to find its rightful home," "May rejection light the way to greater acceptance," or "Rot in hell, Atlantic Monthly!" whichever feels most a propos.)

Another possibility is to respond, in writing, on the back of the slips. "Dear Editor: Thank you for your unwarranted form rejection. I wish you the best of luck in finding decent stories for your stupid magazine. You will need it because obviously you have no literary taste whatever." Then rip them up and throw them away.

The point is to attend to and placate any part of yourself that may feel angry, hurt, or unfinished, without doing yourself professional damage or cluttering up your house. Pay attention to your feelings about the slips--not what you think you ought to feel but what happens in your gut when you read them--and respond symbolically. Chances are good that you will you clear space not only on your desk but in your psyche as well.

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 and other creative artists. Her book,  Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity, was published by Seal Press in June, 2007. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Susanne Dunlap]

I loved this advice, Dr. Sue! I've avoided dealing with rejections by leaving them in my other house somewhere I don't know where they are--but I suspect that is just another form of keeping them in a pile and not throwing them away. On the other hand, at least the form rejections one gets from publishers and periodicals are not nasty-- unlike the comments I once got from a reader for a peer-reviewed journal when I submitted an academic paper for publication. Ouch! At least writers are acknowledged to be sensitive, sentient beings.

[Writer, Rejected]

Great advice. Or E can send the rejections right on over to Literary Rejections on Display for some airing and anonymous posting. You know we love to help writers feel better about being rejected! www.literaryrejectionsondisplay.blogspot.com

[Susan M]

This is the best advice, Dr. Sue. I tend to let too much get by me without fully acknowledging the impact. I've had one particular rejection sitting on my desk for weeks now, folded up, not yet entered on the spreadsheet, because it was such a blow. Your response gives me some insight. Thanks so much.

[T]

Maybe do something creative with them, like the screenwriter who got frustrated that his work wasn't selling. He shot bulletholes in his scripts and then made an art installation of of them. It was quite wonderful.

[Susan M]

I did something creative with a rejection a few years back. By mistake, the editors had included in the envelope a page with their handwritten (and very hurtful) comments on it. I created a performance piece, using the editors insults as dialog spoken by two friends of mine as they danced a rumba (like the Nick and Nora Charles of the editing world, so impossibly sophisticated that they would never like anything). We performed it at an open mic. A friend filmed it and posted it on the web. It was very cathartic.

[dr.sue]

These are all terrific comments & suggestions--thank you!

Susan M, would you feel comfortable posting a link to that video?

[Susan M]

Dr. Sue, Thanks for asking. This is a few years old, and as I remember some people had problems hearing or seeing the clip (technical difficulties). I've had thoughts of trying to re-mount the production, but haven't, so without further caveats, here's the link.
http://tinyurl.com/2ucpak

And thanks again for the great column.

[dr.sue]

Susan, that is hilarious, thanks!

And the Literary Rejections site is terrific, too; thank you for directing us there, W,R.