Last Saturday, I ventured to the mailbox and opened it to find something I've not seen in many, many moons: one of my own self-addressed stamped envelopes. "That's odd," I said to myself as I pulled the envelope out of the mailbox. "I don't think I've sent an SASE to anyone in a long, long time."
Turns out, I hadn't. The letter inside was a rejection. For "Waking Lazarus." You know, the book that was contracted 1 1/2 years ago, released several months ago, and is now approaching a third printing.
I looked at my records, and saw this particular literary agency had requsted the manuscript almost THREE YEARS ago. A lot can happen in three years. For instance, a book can be contracted, released, and approaching its third printing in that amount of time. Or did I already say that?
I suppose, on some level, the literary agency in question should be admired. (To protect their identity somewhat, I've removed names and addresses; however, if you're really interested in finding out the agency in question, and if you're good at googling, it shouldn't be hard to figure out.) Give them credit: they answered.
But isn't there a point of diminishing returns? Did they send this rejection, really expecting that I was waiting to hear from them? Did they really feel there was any upside in this at all? When you've waited three years, the only thing your letter will be used for is...well, a blog entry that notes how long it took. When I sent the package, a stamp cost just 37¢; the agency actually had to add two 1¢ stamps to my SASE to send it back. Let me say, after three years, 'tis far better to say nothing at all, in my opinion.
The letter delighted me, in any case. But I especially love these lines: "While the writing is promising, we're sorry to say that we didn't feel strongly confident that this is something we could place in today's extremely competitive market." Lines like these in rejection letters were always a bit of a pet peeve for me--and believe me, I've received a lot of rejection letters--because they come off as vaguely arrogant and backhanded, but that's really beside the point. (Actually, it really isn't beside the point, I suppose: if it took them three years to read the blessed thing, I'm not STRONGLY CONFIDENT they could place it, either.)
No, the point is: I'm thankful for this letter. Really. And I'm not reproducing it here to ridicule the agency in question. Okay, that's a lie; I am reproducing it to poke a bit of fun at them. But that's not the only reason. Instead, I'm framing this letter and hanging it above the desk where I write, because it's a great reminder of two things:
1) I'm really no different from the guy who was trying to get published just three short years ago. I want to remember, every day, how fortunate I am to be doing what I'm doing.
2) Sometimes, rejection has very little to do with quality or potential. The agent who rejected this has been in the industry for a couple of decades, with several sales. He didn't think it would be published. And yet, it has been published--to good sales success and positive reviews.
So, to those of you who write, and who are slogging through rejection letters right now: take heart. Timing is, indeed, a part of the equation. Rejections only mean you haven't found the right person to work with yet, so keep going. It may take a while, but if your work is good, you'll find the right person.
It may even take three years.