Welcome to the next installment of Rejection Letter Rundown. Today, I’m covering that first baby step forward on the path of rejectomancy, the improved form rejection. If you’d like to catch up and read the first post in this series, click here.
At first glance, the improved form rejection might look like the common form rejection, but it carries an important distinction—it says something other than no. It’s still a no—don’t make any mistake about that—but hidden within this rejection is the first sign you might be making progress with this particular publisher.
Here’s one of mine:
Many thanks for sending “XXX”, but I’m sorry to say that we don’t think it’s quite right for [our publication]. We wish you luck placing it elsewhere, and hope that you’ll send us something new soon.
You’ll notice this letter has many of the same components as the common form rejection. It says the publisher received and read my submission, they’re not going to publish it, and it has the very common nicety of wishing me luck placing it elsewhere. The distinction between the common form rejection and the improved form rejection is the second part of the last sentence, “…and we hope you’ll send us something new soon.”
There is some debate on the improved form rejection, and there are writers who believe the line “…send us something new” in the letter above is just as sincere as the one right before it, “We wish you luck placing it elsewhere.” They’re both just the garden variety niceties you find in the common form rejection. There’s likely some truth in this, and I have no doubt some publishers use this model.
On the other hand, I’ve heard there are publications that have multiple tiers of form rejections. A series of letters that, while still form rejections, offers encouragement or a sincere invitation to submit again. The first tier is the common form rejection. The second form letter (and some even have a third or fourth) is sent to authors whose work shows some promise. Maybe not enough promise to warrant a personal rejection letter (we’ll cover those later), but enough to say, “We’re not entirely opposed to reading another one of your stories.”
So here’s the big question: Is the improved form rejection more often just a common form rejection in disguise? Sometimes, yes, but I’d rather err on the positive side of this thing. Here’s why. I was an editor for a long time, and without exception, I never sent a request, of any kind, to an author I didn’t want he or she to complete. I just didn’t have the time look at emails and stories from authors whose work doesn’t fit the style or tone I wanted. I like to think I’m not the only editor that feels that way.
My reason for believing the improved form rejection indicates you’re making progress comes from my own experience. This is anecdotal as fuck, but, hey, it’s my blog, and around here anecdotal is ironclad proof. I’ve sent a story to a publisher, got the common form rejection, sent another and got the improved form rejection, sent another and got the improved form rejection (verbatim) again, until, finally, after two more improved form rejections, I got a personal rejection that said, “Hey , dumbass, stop sending us your shitty stories.” Kidding! Nah, the editor took the time to tell me he liked my work, but I was just missing the mark, and he offered some helpful advice on how I might improve. I’ve yet to submit again to that particular publisher—I’m thinking very carefully about what I should send—but I certainly felt encouraged by the progress I made, moving up through the various form letters to the pinnacle of rejection, the informative personal rejection (we’ll cover that one eventually).
Bottom line, if an editor requests that you send more work, even in a form letter, they probably mean it. So, go ahead, reload, and fire off another piece. Keep in mind, though, if you don’t progress to a personal rejection, or, even better, an acceptance, or you stop getting the improved form rejection and start getting the common form rejection again, it might be time to give this particular publisher a rest and send your work somewhere else.
This is a question writers hear a lot. Hell, it’s a question writers ask a lot. The most common answer is something frustratingly vague like, “all the time” or “as much as you can.” Easy, right? I mean who has a day job, a significant other, friends, a life that requires occasional routine maintenance, and all that other shit that gets in the way of writing all the goddamn time?
My problem with the “all the time” answer is the implication that if you’re not writing 24/7, you’ll never be any good or have any success. That leads to the feeling that you’re never writing enough. That feeling sucks, and I don’t recommend it.
Yes, you need to write a lot to get better, but that doesn’t mean your writing can’t fit somewhat comfortably into the rest of your life. Writing is my fulltime gig, and I don’t write all the time. I have a daily goal of 2,000 words on my current fiction project and then another 500 to 1,000 words on stuff like blogging. Those numbers allow me to comfortably hit my deadlines and still have something resembling a life.
I get not everyone has eight hours a day to devote to writing (and intermittently fucking around on the internet), but I think my method works even if you can only find an hour a day to write. So, my answer to the age-old question “How much/often should I write?” is the following incredibly complex formula. Try to keep up.
Step 1: Figure out what you want to write: short stories, novels, blog posts, whatever. It doesn’t matter what it is; just pick something with a quantifiable length.
Step 2: Set a daily writing goal. Start small, even as small as 250 words per day. That doesn’t seem like a lot, but that shit adds up. In a week, you’ve got a solid flash fiction story; in a month, a reasonably sized short story; over a year, we’re talking novel-length. (By the way, I’ve highlighted the 250th word in this post, so you can see how much actual writing that entails.) If a word count goal feels too much like accounting, set a time limit. I’d recommend starting with a solid hour. Whatever the metric you choose, it should be something you can easily measure, so you’ll know the exact moment you achieve it.
Step 3: Hit your goal and bask in the warm glow of achievement. That sense of achievement is really important—next to getting published, it’s my favorite part of writing. When I hit my word count, I feel good. What’s better, I don’t feel guilty for paying attention to the other parts of my life. I get more shit done when I don’t feel guilty (so will you).
If you’re new to this whole writing thing, I think setting small, measurable goals is the way to go. Try it out. My guess is that you’ll start hitting that initial goal, and then, in a very short time, exceeding it on a regular basis.
Already got a method that works for you? Tell me about it in the comments.
Rejection Letters – An Introduction to Disappointment
If you are going to send out your work to genre magazines, webzines, and book publishers, you are going to get rejection letters, probably a lot of them. It is vitally important you understand this is both inevitable and unavoidable. It is totally going to happen to you. Even when you break through and start publishing, you will still get rejected. Until you reach that vaunted place where your name alone sells books—Stephen King could probably sell his grocery list—you will get rejected.
So make peace with the rejection letter and accept it as part of mastering the art of rejectomancy.
Rejection letters come in many forms, and some can tell you a lot about your writing. They all sting, but each one stimulates the growth of an ever-thickening skin all writers need to survive the pain of rejection, and while this protective integument is never completely effective against that pain, it can blunt its impact.
In this series of posts, I’ll break down the various types of rejection letters I’ve received, dissecting them in an attempt to uncover their meaning and potential use to the aspiring author. I’ll give you examples from my own copious and ever-growing pile of the things in hopes you can learn something from them or just take some comfort that you are not alone.
Take note, I will not be revealing the names of editors, publications, or even the stories I’ve submitted. If you’re looking for that, you’ll have to look elsewhere. There are blogs that do that kind of thing, and while I have no problem with the concept, I’m taking a different approach.
Okay, let’s get to the rejections!
The Common Form Rejection (Rejectio familiaris)
When you start sending your stories out for publication, the rejection letter you are most likely to receive is a boilerplate, copy-and-paste kind of deal I call the common form rejection. It is the simplest and most efficient way for an editor or publisher to politely say “no thanks” without saying anything else
Let’s look at an actual, real-live common form rejection I recently received:
We have read your submission and will have to pass, as it unfortunately does not meet our needs at this time. Thank you
Short and to the point, this is a pretty typical example of the common form rejection. It says three things: we received your story, we read your story, and we’re not going to publish your story. It also includes the ubiquitous phrase “does not meet our need at this time.” You are going to see that and others like it a lot. Every industry has their lingo, and publishing is no different.
Can you read anything else into this letter? I don’t think so. You may be tempted to think they hated your story or they think you’re a bad writer. You may ask yourself does “unfortunately” mean they reluctantly passed? Does “at this time” mean they came close to accepting it? It’s possible any of these things (good or bad) are true, but the real truth is you can’t know and you never will. This is your first test on the path of rejectomancy, and to pass it, you just have to move on. Don’t think about this one too much. It’s not worth it.
Here’s another example of the common form rejection from my own collection:
Thank you for letting us read your story. Unfortunately, at this time, it’s not a good fit for our magazine, so we are unable to accept it. We wish you good luck placing it with a different market.
All the best!
At first glance, this looks more promising than the first. It has a more casual tone and uses apologetic and even encouraging language, but it really says the same things as the first letter. The only real difference, you’ll note, is the last line, “We wish you good luck placing it with a different market.” This is another one of those lines you’ll see in a lot in rejection letters, and I wouldn’t read too much into it one way or the other. It’s another, nicer way to say no thanks. Editors are people (and often writers) too, and they aren’t out to hurt your feelings or ruin your day. So, in my opinion, this letter is just an attempt to soften the blow, and as a writer, I can appreciate that.
Should you submit again to a publication that has sent you a common form rejection? The answer, in my opinion, is yes. Neither of the letter’s above says anything other than they passed on this story. They might love the next one. That said, if this is the tenth letter you’ve received from the same publisher after submitting ten different stories, then, maybe, you should begin questioning if this is the right market for you.
Now for the things you probably don’t want to hear. If you’ve been submitting work for something like a full year of committed submissions, and this is the only type of letter you’re getting, and you’re getting it from multiple publishers, then you may need to ask yourself some important questions:
That’s all I have to say about the common form rejection, but I’d like to hear about your experiences with this type of rejection letter. If you want to share an actual rejection, please make sure you remove all identifying marks: the editor’s name, the publication, the name of your story, etc.
Next up, Rejection Letter Rundown: The Improved Form Rejection.