A “No” Never Means You’re Not Good Enough

Many years ago, I liked a boy.

No, I’m just kidding. This isn’t a blog about relationships, although I admit that some (not all!) of what I am about to say could apply to relationships.

For those of you who are my long-time subscribers, you know that this is the time of year when I review my submission success—the number of times I submitted my work to magazines, and the number of times my work was accepted or rejected—and the lessons I learned along the way. For newer subscribers, welcome to my world of being a writer and getting the big boot (which is what I call it when I get a big ol’ NO).

And let me tell you upfront, this was a year of a lot of big boots.

But let’s start with early 2020, just before the pandemic truly hit, when in early March I got a yes from The Sun, one of my dream publications. I’ve written before about how hugely important this was to me—I had submitted 24 pieces to them over the course of 14 years, so I did whoop it up when I got the yes. And when I say I whooped it up, I mean I WHOOPED IT UP!

This boded well for my year ahead. But, like the pandemic which I had not anticipated to take the turns that it did, the year of submissions did not turn out exactly as I hoped. What followed was a no. And another, and another. I had expected to get more rejections than normal as this was the year I submitted almost exclusively to what I call “reach” magazines—magazines that I had never been able to get my work into before. I knew that if I didn’t try, I had zero chance of getting in, so this was the year of try.

And try and try and try. I might as well give you the number of rejections now to get it out of the way: 88. I usually aim for 100 rejections, but apparently I did not submit enough work because I can assure you with the trajectory I was on, I would have easily made that goal. I got 88 rejections in 2020, almost all in a row. I admit, sometimes it did feel a little like someone was throwing pebbles at my face for days and weeks and months in a row. Some days I got more than one rejection (yippee!).

But here was the big lesson for me: It did not make me give up. And it did not make me think I was not a good writer. Not once.

Sure, I got tired of the big boot, but there were some bright spots even in the sea of rejections: one of my reach magazines (I’ll call them Reach Magazine One) encouraged me to submit again. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the type of rejection you can get, there are typically two: the flat-out NO, and the no-but-we-liked your-work-so-please-try-again. So when Reach Magazine One encouraged me to submit again, I did—another three times because they kept saying no-but-try-again. My fourth submission is still out with them right now. Another reach magazine—Reach Magazine Two—I have submitted to 14 times (!) in the last five years. They are a dream publication, one of my top three journals I want to get into. In 2020, I submitted to them four times: the first two I got back just standard rejections; the second two were no-but-we-liked your-work-so-please-try-again. I consider that progress. I’m waiting for their submissions to open again so I can try. This year will also be the year of try, try, try. 

My total number of 2020 acceptances? Two. The Sun back in March, and then another on December 28th, just squeaking in to 2020. I’ll take it.

In the meantime, I’m still writing, I’m still teaching, I’m still very grateful for all the yeses I have gotten in life. So what if some magazine said no? There’s always another. All it takes is one.

Photo credit: Racquel Raclette from Unsplash.com.

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Upcoming Workshops

Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any (or all) of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10/session.
January 12, 2021, noon (EST): Register here
January 26, 2021, noon (EST): Register here
February 9, 2021, noon (EST): Register here

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My Bookshop & Doodleshop are always open here.

Postcards and note cards, some 2021 sales, and more cards to come for Valentine’s Day.

You Really Should Think About Teaching

Years ago when I was in college, my professors told me, “You should think about teaching. You’d be good at it.” But I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to be a writer. 

I did become a full-time writer, eventually. In the meantime I became a study abroad administrator, an admissions recruiter, a publications coordinator, a career counselor, and a financial counselor.

(I did have a short stint teaching at a university in Mexico early on, but I told myself I wasn’t any good at it—I couldn’t motivate the students who didn’t want to learn, the ones who talked through class and rolled their eyes. But the ones who did want to learn? They loved me and I loved them.)

Life went on, and it looked as if I were zig-zagging through a zillion careers, but if you looked closely, you could find some common threads—things I was drawn to, things I sought—and one of them was this: connecting with people. When I recruited for university admissions, driving all over Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana in a red Ford Taurus sedan with a trunkload of brochures, I enjoyed sitting down with high school students and talking to them about their futures and academic interests. When I was a career counselor for The Women’s Center in Chapel Hill, working out of my upstairs, closet-sized office that I loved with a view into the trees, I looked forward to talking with clients about their career aspirations—what did they want to do, what was holding them back, and what tools did they need to become successful? I liked taking on interns and helping them get the skills they needed to launch their careers. I loved training, mentoring, and yes, teaching, though I am not sure I would have ever used that word exactly, not back then. Now I can see I was teaching in small ways all along but without the title. 

When I applied to master’s of fine arts programs in creative writing, I looked for studio programs—programs that focused more on how to write, less on how to teach. I wasn’t planning on becoming a professor, so what did I need all that for? But looking back, I do remember thinking that one day, when I had a book or two under my belt, I wanted to teach at writing workshops and conferences like the ones I had attended. I’d had my fair share of good teachers (the ones who taught me craft tools that I still use today, the ones who encouraged, the ones who inspired) along with my fair share of the bad (the ones who said none of us were good enough to write a full-length book, the ones who delivered criticism with knives instead of neutralities, the ones who got exasperated with beginners). I wanted to take all of the good things I’d learned and I wanted to help others the way I’d been helped. 

It’s kind of funny how life can be taking you along a road for years, for decades even, and you’re so busy chatting and looking up at the stars and looking down at your feet that you don’t have a clue what the destination will be—you’re not even thinking about a destination, you’re thinking where the heck is the bathroom and I’m getting hungry, did anyone bring some food? And then you arrive, and you open the door, and you realize the door was there all along.

I’ll be teaching another memoir/personal essay workshop in January. This won’t be my first time teaching it, but I still bring that giddiness to it that reminds me of other kinds of firsts—first day of school, first day of the new year, first love. I’ve been sitting at a big wooden table at the back of our house, a place by a row of windows, and poring through essays and memoir chapters and finding what I hope will be just the right prompts and pieces to show these writers the tools that can help them chisel out their most important truths, the stories that keep them awake at night, their stories that need to be heard.

I love seeing writers grow and change. I like seeing their lightbulb moments. But every single time I teach, my students teach me something in return. I change and grow and am better for having known them and their work.

The motto of my alma mater is: “Having Light We Pass It On To Others.” My professors did that for me all those years ago and now it’s my turn with my small but unflickering light. I guess they were right after all when they said I should think about teaching.

(Photo credit: Kelly Blanchard)

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Upcoming Workshops

The Art of Memoir/Personal Essay: A Generative Writing Workshop
Tuesdays, January 5-February 2, 2021, 2:30-4:30/5 p.m. (EST):
Join me in this online (Zoom) workshop during which you will generate new writing, read writing that inspires, and learn some tools and techniques on the craft of personal essay/memoir writing. The goal is for you to leave with first drafts and a writer’s toolbox ready to help you finish and write the rest of your own life stories. Cost: $329. Limit 12 participants. Register here. Learn more here.

Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any (or all) of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10/session.
December 29, 2020, noon (EST): Register here
January 12, 2021, noon (EST): Register here
January 26, 2021, noon (EST): Register here
February 9, 2021, noon (EST): Register here

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Looking for Last-Minute Gifts?

I have lots of sales going on at my online doodleshop and bookshop.

The Art of Gift & Take

I’ve never been a big gift lover, but I have always been happy when someone thought of me. During my first marriage, I was often wistful that my then-husband wasn’t the type of person to go into a grocery store to pick up something and then see something else—say, a pint of vanilla frozen yogurt—and get it because he knew I would love it. Basically because it made him think of me. Now, to be fair, if I had asked him to get it while he was going to the grocery store, he would have. But sometimes I wanted him to just happen to do something for me because he had thought of me. Maybe his mind didn’t work that way. Whatever the reason, I got used to it, and I told myself it was fine, it didn’t matter, I had everything I needed. And that was true, to a point. And anyway, I liked the idea of not relying on anyone else. I wanted to be independent. 

In my first marriage, we were definitely that. When I look back, I can see how much we were like two planets whose orbits never crossed.

After we split up, I did what I had always done: I took care of myself. If I needed or wanted something, I got it. It took two of my male friends to make me realize I needed to be more open to people doing things for me, giving me things, thinking of me. If someone offered to help me, I stopped saying, “No, I’m fine.” I learned to say, “Thank you. That would be great.” One time, my garbage disposal went out; one of these friends said he would replace it. Another time I wanted a car stereo with a CD player in my car; my two friends said if I got it, they would install it. We cooked meals for each other every Sunday, and we always took into account each other’s preferences, restrictions, and tastes. When it was my turn, I loved planning the dinner and slicing, sautéing and baking. When it was each of their turns, I loved having whatever they had made on a warm plate in front of me.

Had I been so worried before about being independent that I had given off a vibe that I didn’t need anyone to do things for me? Maybe. At any rate, these two friends taught me that independence didn’t have to mean only giving and not receiving, that all relationships are give and take.

Now, I am married to a man who regularly thinks of me. One time, I remarked on a pink fleece jacket someone had on that I loved, and a few weeks later, one arrived in the mail just for me. When my back started hurting because I was sitting so much, he said I should get a stand-up desk, and he researched the best brands and got a desk for me. When the big box arrived at our house I figured it would stay packaged for a few weeks—he’s incredibly busy at work and has long days—but as soon as he got home from work that night, he changed clothes, got out his toolbox, and put the thing together.

Thank you, I said. I love you, I said. And I went into the kitchen and started to make dinner, thinking as I always do of what he likes and doesn’t like, and opening the refrigerator, pulling out the cutting board, beginning the easy, daily work.

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Sales at My Bookshop

Looking for gifts? I have lots of sales going on at my online bookshop.

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Upcoming Workshops

Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me for any of these online one-hour sessions. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. These workshops are part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10 each.
November 17, 2020, noon (EST): Register here
December 1, 2020, noon (EST): Register here
December 15, 2020, noon (EST): Register here
December 29, 2020, noon (EST): Register here

The Art of Memoir/Personal Essay: A Generative Writing Workshop
Tuesdays, January 5-February 2, 2021, 2:30-4:30/5 p.m. (EST):
Join me in this online (Zoom) workshop during which you will generate new writing, read writing that inspires, and learn some tools and techniques on the craft of personal essay/memoir writing. The goal is for you to leave with first drafts and a writer’s toolbox ready to help you finish and write the rest of your own life stories. Cost: $329. Limit 12 participants. Register here. Learn more here.