Every once in a while, I have to remind myself that it’s just business. Editorial and publishing decisions are not personal (usually) and no one is “out to get me.”
But every once in a while, I see that rejection laying in my inbox and it taunts me, telling me my writing sucks. It tells me I’m the worst author in the universe, that everyone else can write better than I can, that I only previously got published because the editors were desperate for content and not because I have talent.
Self, it’s just business.
Now I sit on the other side of the coin. As Assistant Editor (and sometimes Guest Editor in Chief) of Penumbra eMag, I find myself the master of other people’s writing fate. I read through the slush, help the EIC pick the final stories, and eventually have to send that dreaded email to someone: “I am sorry, but…” It is, I think, the ultimate Dear John letter. And now, I’m the one who has to write them.
It is not personal. It’s just business, and sometimes a sucky business at that.
I have to make my decisions based on budget, magazine wordcount, and story flow. What is otherwise a magnificent story might get nixed because it repeats a theme repeated a zillion times over in the current submissions queue (The number of “Something Wicked” / circus stories we received for the Bradbury issue might have set a world record). Or a long story gets nixed because we already have too many long stories and need a few short ones. Or we nix a story because as clever as it is, it doesn’t fit with the cadence, the pattern or the flow of the other stories. We definitely reject stories that don’t fit the issue theme, especially when the author knows it and mentions it in their cover letter.
Time after time I’ve seen that line in rejection letters to me. “I’m sorry, this story doesn’t fit in with the other stories chosen for the anthology.” “I’m sorry, but this story doesn’t fill our needs.”
The light dawns. It makes sense to me now. I see life from the editor’s POV. “It doesn’t fit” doesn’t mean “You horrid writer, you. Don’t quit your day job.” It means … well, it could mean a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean my writing or my story was bad. And it is definitely not a rejection of me or an attempt to invalidate my existence. It’s only about the story. A single story.
Once an editor did make the rejection personal. She called me stupid. She called my story the worst thing she’d ever seen (or something along those lines). In the middle of that rant, she gave me very good advice that almost got lost in my reaction to the name calling and the sheer agony of virtual evisceration. Whether she meant it personally or not, I’ll never know. At this point, only one part of that experience matters: Knowing what not to say to a writer.
I will never use “stupid” in a rejection letter. I will never make it personal. It’s just business. Maybe I can’t always say exactly why I rejected a story. Some words, no matter how clinical or helpful they are intended to be, will always be hurtful. It’s called Rejectomancy, the art of turning “Your story was not a good fit” into “We don’t want anything to do with you.” That’s not what we (the editors) mean, even though that’s what we (the authors) will always hear.
Sometimes it’s a really sucky business. But it’s just business, only business, and nothing but business, so help me Publisher.
