On Rejection

I am sure that I knew him, that professor who wallpapered his office with every single rejection letter he ever received. But upon relaying the anecdote recently, a friend finished my story and added, “Yeah, I’ve heard that one, too.”

OK. I admit that it’s possible the wallpaper part was passed down, some sort of sweeping tall story told across English Departments everywhere–but I know a professor in college once told me he made a point to save every letter. I remember feeling very surprised that he should even receive one rejection letter, let alone enough to paper a wall. (Maybe that’s where I got the wallpaper–has it become a favorite cliche?)

“Isn’t that a little masochistic?” The same friend said to me when I showed her my own collection, which I keep bundled in the top drawer of my desk like some stash of love letters. And in a perverse way, that’s what they are. Evidence of an unrequited love of writing. Or maybe that’s how I cope with the particular hazards of this job–of receiving regular rejection, and worse, having to occasionally deliver it.

Of course, it’s not just a “job.” If it were, there would be no archetypal professor and his wallpapered Office of Rejection. The masochist.

In response to my friend’s charge, today I threw the stack away–to be sure, in the recycling bin. All those self-addressed-stamped-envelopes. All those thin strips of paper that register a particular insult: “What, I don’t deserve a full sheet?” Even the occasional godsend, the scribbled note at the bottom. And yes, that one from five years ago that was so nasty and strangely personal (have you gotten these?), I passed it around in a glorified show-and-tell–no doubt, another coping mechanism, though my peers didn’t believe an editor would actually take the time to write that much and needed to see it for themselves. (They said I should be flattered, but I’m not sure…) This too got tossed.

And I don’t feel any different, any lighter or better for it. I feel pretty indifferent, in fact. So much for the love-letter analogy. But at least my office maintains its minimalist decor–the only thing on the walls, my stepson’s finger paintings. Real love letters.

I’ve read a few humor pieces lately that poke fun at the rejection letter (which has its own entry on Wikipedia–though what doesn’t?). I personally like this one: http://www.chaosmatrix.org/library/humor/reject.html

If you have more to add to the mix, or want to share your version of the wallpaper story, or suggest more pleasing ways Brevity might revise its rejection letter so we don’t end up being passed around in a show-and-tell, please do.

–Rachael