Rejection, literary

Rejection. Evokes romantic rejection with its singular and universal echoing pain. Also the felt but unknown rejections, you know, back when mother/father/brother/sister, the odd relative, the bully, poverty, sanctimonious wealth, middle-class boredom, warfare, an oppressive right-wing shouting lies had their way with you or some part of you. Their way is to leave tracks on tender parts.

To the chase, Sarah. Both my short story collections were rejected by the University of Georgia Press Flannery O'Connor competition.

The letters (two) arrived Thursday. Note: A typical rejection of one story or one group of poems can sting but I recognize the chump-ness of writing about that. Beginners complain and often stop submitting their work to avoid the ouch. That's being a chump. EVERYONE, except maybe Richard Price (The Wanderers) whose fiction was grabbed up when he was in college, gets rejected.

But man, this rejection is a comment on my writing career. I wondered if it was a message to quit. That competition has rejected my various short story collections more than once. I don't submit every year but I'd say seven or so times. The collection, now collections, varies each year as I add a new story or edit an extant.


This year I folded in each of my two novellas -- A Vote for Ross Perot and From the One End of Heaven, redivided the stories, came up with two books.

On Friday I received an e-mail from a novella competition stating I was almost a runner-up. The publisher had cut the list short because of finances but if someone dropped out (who drops out from getting published?) my novella would be published.

My inclination is to hide or certainly not make my failure public. I'm a writer and what I do is write. And tell the truth unless it's fiction and then an even greater truth (what does that mean?) (emotional?) is required.

It happened. No conclusion offered other than if I don't write what other excuse do I have to be in bed at 9:53 on a lovely Saturday morning. Writing.

The end.

[Pictured: The author with two short story collections awaiting life.]

It took 25+ years to get this story published

I wrote the first draft of "The Devil Is Her Friend," then "Half Death," in December 1984, which means in Seattle. (I'd moved there from L.A. in August, using extra money from an NEH fellowship for high school teachers to fund the adventure.) I don't have the earliest drafts--I don't hold onto much. I do, however, have my lovely blue cloth notebook--a gift from an L.A. friend. I recorded stories written and submitted until 1991 in that book.

Back then I had energy and like a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney prototype, gumption. I submitted it to The New Yorker, Hudson Review, Kenyon Review. My notes indicate they scribbled encouraging replies on the rejection slips. I received a generous number of "send more" slips to little avail.

My impulse should have been to submit first to smaller reviews, absorb their suggestions, then try the most competitive journals, but I used to be afraid I was depriving myself of a chance to join the mystical fellowship of the self-affirming egotistical hierarchy. Now I laugh at my idiocy. My story is out there. I am mo-fo thrilled.

The obvious thing is, however, that it took circa twenty-five years to get this story published. On the one hand (as they say), well, I can see that I tinkered on the story for years. On the other (another comment of theirs), holy crap. I mean the story hasn't that significantly changed. I spruced up this and that by means of cheekier dialog.

I agreed, a few years ago, with some review editors who loved it (they said), wouldn't published it, but suggested I remove a section in which Pearl decides what book she'll read while other teachers are lip servicing the priest. I love that delted section, a meditation on favorite books, but realized they were right, that few readers if any readers were interested in that kind of decision.

About six months ago, editors at WON'T BE NAMED wrote me they like this story "very" much but wanted me to delete another section. It's 2,500-word story. What did they want? This was the third story of mine they'd read--the first was over-the-transom, the next two were requests--ever in search of the perfect Sarai story, I guess.

I didn't delete any more, impolitely told them to screw off, and sent the story to Stone's Throw. (Do you know how talented, intelligent, beautiful, insightful and Russell Rowland and Tami Haaland & co. are, not to mention Russell was figure skating champion in Minsk five years in a row and Tami has been coaching Gold's Gym weight lifters for forty years.)

And herein lies a tale in a tale in a riddle in an enigma in Stone's Throw.

GO TO http://www.stonesthrowmagazine.com/ (and spy on the fiction links until you unearth my covert link), or boldly clink on or cut and paste:
http://www.stonesthrowmagazine.com/pdf/sarai_the-devil-is-her-friend.pdf