Thank you for your rejection. I appreciate the soul-crushing blow to my dwindling self-esteem. No really, your rejection was spectacular. I respect the creativity a Compliment Sandwich Rejection provides. You know, the one where you state a few sweet things about my book…then fill the rest with the Ebola Virus? Beautiful. My favorite, though, is your main course: the Form Rejection Letter. May I have a side of chocolate-covered cancer with that tasty meal? I’ll tell you one thing–your letters?–they are sniper-accurate. Not a single writer makes it through without battle wounds. It’s strange…how that kind of common pain builds friendships.
Thank you, dear agent/editor, for taking so long to send me your rejection letter. You know what’s terrible? I actually liked waiting months for you to not read my book. Because at least then there was a chance you might call with good news. It’s pretty ingenious, actually. You may not realize, but that wait makes me want you even more. It also kills that much more when you send that blasted rejection. It’s strange…how that kind of “process” gives lessons in extreme patience.
Thank you, dear agent/editor, for pointing out all the reasons my book would never make it. That didn’t sting at all. That didn’t feel like a cracked-out porcupine ramming it’s head into my chest plate until it successfully got at my heart….and ate it. I like how all the things I was confident made my book different, actually made it unlikable. It’s strange, though…how now it seems my writing and stories have improved.
Thank you, dear agent/editor, for giving me proof that I can be knocked down and survive. You’ve got the biggest effing boxing gloves I’ve ever seen, whereas I am on shaky legs with only a stack of paper as my weapon. You busted my ass with that right hook, you know that?
But I got back up.
Do you see me still standing?
Do you see me?
Dear agent/editor who passed on my book…you gave me writing comrades, you gave me patience, you gave me persistence. Thank you.