The sweat crept down my back like a stealthy intruder, making me uncomfortable enough to be distracted from the mail that had arrived smack in the middle of summer. Glancing through it on my way to stick my head in the freezer, I became poignantly aware of a letter from a magazine I'd submitted to. I opened it in due time, with only an idle figment of my mind devoted to the possibility of good news.
With so many submissions in the publishing world, many must be rejected, or the act of publication would be worthless. I have told myself repeatedly that it doesn't make sense to be optimistic about my submissions, that if I expect to be rejected, a complimentary one would be a pleasant surprise and would prevent me from feeling like the heroine of a romantic comedy who didn't get the boy she was fated for.
By the time I'd actually convinced myself that nothing of consequence hails from the mail of publishers, I'd been accepted.
Acceptance involves incredible validation, a sense of euphoria consisting of the tiny slip of a belief that it's all downhill from there, that all the published writers have been hiding it from you, and that your road to stardom is paved with yellow bricks.
Following that is a crash of your natural high, like a sugar crash, but inevitable. Doubts creep into your mind like mice into your basement. You wonder if this was the high point of your career, if they'll misspell your name like they did at your high school newspaper, if your success was a cosmic mistake. At least, I did.
Now, of course, the only solution isn't really a solution. It's the same thing they tell you to do when you lose your day job or your great-aunt Martha dies: keep on trucking. Life goes on, and in the midst of its chaos, you've gotta do what you've gotta do. Keep writing, keep submitting.
The core of this message is supposed to be that acceptance is only the beginning, and that the message needs to be communicated because everyone thinks they've got it made when their turn comes around.
I disagree. Acceptance is somewhere in between the beginning and the end, and though it's a pivotal point in that mucky middle section of existence, it's one that you can't control and might as well rejoice over. If you've gotten your name in print, you've surpassed an entire demographic of other writers. We are, nonetheless, in the middle, and to continue on to the top of the heap, more hard work must ensue.
What's the key? What's the answer to getting there? Don't ask the girl with one publication under her belt, that's the first step. And, as I've heard so many writers say, I can't say what will work for you, but I can share what works for me.
Three months ago I created two tables to organize all my submissions. I created one to organize my stories, which included word count, genre, and submission history. The other was formed around publications, including a column for submissions, response time, and whether their rejection was reeked of formulaic prose or seemed relatively unique to my story's qualities.
I also keep my writing in two separate folders, “Complete” and “Works in Progress.” That affords me the opportunity to write according to my mood. I always have the option of creating or adding on to current projects, while fine-tuning older stories both revitalizes them and gives me hope for their publication.
Acceptance shouldn't change you. It should convince you to continue doing what you're doing, to find methods that work for you, and to keep after what you believe in.
