Rejecting Rejection

How are you at handling rejection? Not great? Yeah, same here.

Sucky as it is, rejection is a wallop to the tum tum that we all have to deal with every so often. And it's not even unique to the human experience. If you're of an age as I am, you may remember tuning into Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom just in time to see the elderly chimp blackballed by the young douchebags of the clan and banished to a thirsty prune grove on a remote savannah. Thank God Jim Fowler was there to wrestle the old guy to the ground, stuff him in a helicopter and take him to LA to live out his life in Fowler's backyard, with occasional day trips to Burbank for Tonight Show appearances.

I think most of us learn rejection early. It could be the second-grade recess friend triangle that exposes us to our first experience of getthefuckoutofhereism, or that time in third grade when friends 1 through 5 get invited to Jeffrey Johnson's birthday party, while we weigh in at number 6. 

In junior high, I can remember rejection as being more commonplace than smelly jeans. Dances were the worst, especially for the girls. It was the '70s and Victorian rules still applied, meaning boys asked girls to dance. It was the rare seventh grade girl who asked a boy and an even rarer one who danced with another girl. Because of this, it wasn't uncommon for a girl to show up dressed in something really nice that she'd planned and prepared for weeks, only to stand around the whole time and go home danceless. Awful, and even though it wouldn't exactly have been Prince Charming to the rescue, I regret not having the  gumption to take more action than I did.

Rejection can feel so personal. How do you know it really isn't about you? I suppose one way is to reject rejection itself, like a certain citrus-skinned assface who wears red ties that hang down to his Huggy-draped taint.* In his case it's more rejection denial than election denial.

*Please see Blogger user agreement which requires one sick Trump fry per post.

I've been a graphic designer for 33 years, a job where rejection is a necessary component of the creative culling process. Is it possible that I may have been a little sensey-poo in those early days, maybe even referring to myself as a fake designer on occasion? 'Tis. But over the years, I've become hardened. A rough shell has formed around my ego, a fragile membrane covering the molten ball of resentment that will surely bubble to the surface when I uncup that mouse for the last time. 

But there's another category of rejection that I really wanted to talk about. It's the kind where you start with the old tabula rasa and go from there. Throughout the past ten years I've been writing and revising two middle grade novels—stories with an intended reader of ten to fourteen years old, but really meant for anyone. 

The first one is Ben's Fall. Set in the late summer, early autumn of 1975, Ben’s Fall is the tale of twelve-year-old Ben Lacey. Already anxious about his impending entry into the “big time” of junior high school, Ben’s stress is further compounded by his alcoholic father who constantly demeans his son’s lack of initiative and manliness. While Ben’s mother futilely attempts to protect him from his dad’s emotional abuse, Ben’s only true refuges is at the home of his closest confidant, Joel, and Joel’s single father, Bruce.

When school begins and Ben is thrust into a sea of older kids, girls and more worldly influences, his feelings of inadequacy only worsen. In the midst of his desperation to fit in, “cool kid” Lonnie Comstock befriends Ben and rescues him from an embarrassing incident in the boys’ restroom. Feeling both indebted to and accepted by Jake, Ben agrees to engage in an illegal after-school activity that he hopes may ultimately prove his worth to his father. It could also result in his dream bike: a Schwinn Fastback Five-Speed Stingray.

Each of Ben’s ill-fated decisions further stretch the distance between him and Joel, yet he’s now become blinded by Jake’s charisma and manipulation. When tragedy strikes, Ben is faced with some painful decisions to win back Joel. But is it too late?

The other middle grade novel is Against the Edge. Set in contemporary Seattle, it's the story of eleven-year-old fifth grader, Theo Cloverdale. Theo is reluctantly thrust into a relationship with Nathan, a classmate with special needs. The two boys are paired as partners for a class field trip to Seattle’s Olympic Sculpture Park, located along the downtown waterfront. Theo's mother Katie attends as a chaperone.

When the class becomes distracted by Lucy, an unruly classmate, Nathan wanders off and is eventually corralled by Theo at the top of the hill. With the boys separated from the other students, a massive natural disaster strikes Elliott Bay. Most of the class is swept into the mayhem, including Katie, and all is witnessed by Theo. 

Despite his profound trauma, Theo acts heroically and his bravery wins him instant, if unwelcome, celebrity. With his mother and many classmates still missing, and faced with this newfound notoriety, Theo’s turmoil reaches a boiling point when an individual enters his life, poised to become his greatest ally—or worst enemy.

Those paragraphs are excerpts from query letters I wrote to perspective agents. Just for a little background info, literary agents have nearly exclusive access to publishers. Agents receive hundreds of queries per week from people like me and must wade through mountains of sample chapters and synopses in search of the next Hunger Games or Holes. Chances are microscopic that a rookie author can run the entire gauntlet, from blind querying to signing with an agent to penning a book deal to cracking open a pristine copy of a hardback copy. It's almost impossible, really.

Unless you're my sister, Ann. In 2009, on the strength of her debut novel, Also Known As Harper, she did just that, snagging an agent, who then marketed the story into a bidding war (or "auction," as it's called in that scenario) between two publishers. The result was a two-book deal with Henry Holt and Company. Around that time, she began encouraging me to consider writing a middle grade novel. Maybe I will, I thought, reverting to my four-year-old self. If she can do it, I can do it. How hard can it be?

Really, really hard, that's how hard. Ben's Fall received 61 rejections, while Against the Edge has now accumulated a whopping 328. Three agents requested full manuscripts of Ben's Fall and six asked for the whole enchilada of Against the Edge. Things have gotten close, just not over the top. Here are some of the kind yet heartbreaking breakup letters from agents who had requested the whole novel:

"Thank you for sending me AGAINST THE EDGE. Your writing is really gorgeous, and I love the pacific northwest backdrop. Unfortunately, while I loved your writing voice, I’m not confident I have the vision necessary to make this particular project stand out in the MG space. And so, I’ll have to pass."

"Hi Tim, I want you to know that I consider each project I receive very carefully, and while there is so much to love in your story, I found myself just not connecting to it as I would have wanted. BUT! Even though your project is not exactly what I’m looking for at the moment, I would definitely encourage you to keep trying… agents are subjective and we’re each looking for different things. I know your work is important to you and I'm absolutely grateful that you wrote to me."

"Hi Tim, I read AGAINST THE EDGE, and while I think you are a good writer, I found the subject matter a bit too terrifying for that age group. Sorry not to have a better reaction. I wish you the best of luck with your work."

Still another agent had a similar comment regarding the subject matter, but hey, kids don't get enough credit sometimes for the reading choices they make and how maturely they're able to handle "terrifying" subject matter. I've decided to keep things as they are.

After ten years of near hits and misses, I'm at a crossroads of sorts with these books. I'd love to share what I've done, whether it's through self-publishing or another option, but I'm kind of tired of shopping them around and I'm ready to move on. Since you've made it to the end of this diatribe, I'd appreciate your answer this question: Would you be interested in reading one or both books? Please be honest. 

I don't write to publish books. To me, that seems kind of sad and unfulfilling. I write because I love it and there are few things more incredible than getting into a "zone" where I actually enter the story. It's how I've always felt when I write here as well. Rejection has no place. This has been a long post, so thanks for making it all the way through.

Where's Gloria Gaynor When a Guy Needs a Hug?

Have you ever watched a movie, one that's based on a true story, and before it's even ended, thought, "Egads, I wonder what happened to those characters. What happened to all those actual dudes from the 1980 USA Olympic hockey team who were portrayed in Miracle?"

Thankfully, films about real-life events can't be followed by sequels, since people's lives don't work that way. It's not like that same hockey team could regroup twenty years later and stage a stunning defeat over the Hungarians in water polo.

Most of these movies get us up to date before the credits roll  plastering information across the screen like, "After scoring the winning goal against the Soviets and then defeating Sweden for the gold medal, Mike Eruzione settled in Duluth, Minnesota. He and his wife currently raise emus for pets and/or food. Believing that nothing could ever exceed the bliss he experienced in Lake Placid that winter, Eruzione lifts his hockey stick only once every year to bludgeon his prized emu for the Eruzione family Thanksgiving feast.

"Don't judge until you've savored the wonder of emu giblets."

Wow, how did I arrive there?

Anyway, I'd like to get you caught up on the events of a day I wrote about about six weeks ago. Presuming that you must be aching to know what happened with the same intensity as your concern for the Von Trapps as they scaled the Alps packing along nothing but a couple of acoustic guitars and a foxy new step mom, I'm here to ease your mind.

On June 12, about six weeks ago, three milestones transpired in our household:

My daughter graduated from high school.

Update: Her summer is going quite well, thanks. She's only got  fifty-eight days, eighteen hours and thirteen minutes left to play beach volleyball, admire her abs and guzzle massive goblets of Jamba Juice before starting college. I feel so bad for her, don't you? By the way, she still hates the words "moist" and "ointment," even after becoming an adult.

Our kitchen remodel was completed.

Update: Since then, we've painted a lot and slightly lamented our dark counter tops. Those things show more dirty rings than a Prince Albert piercing kiosk. We've sprinkled the rest of the house with sparkly new accouterments from Pier 1, IKEA, Target and maybe even a smidge of Craigslistishness.

I received an email from a literary agent asking for the full manuscript of my middle grade novel.

Update: I'd heard stories of writers persevering for years before getting an agent to fly into their empty mayo jar of hope, so I was really excited. Last Saturday night as I checked my email shortly before going to bed, this message sat into the old in-basket:

Dear Mr. Haywood:

Thank you for the opportunity to consider your work.

I read the pages you sent with interest. Unfortunately, after careful consideration, I have concluded that Ben's Fall is not a great fit for my list. Fiction, as I’m sure you know, is just about the toughest thing to sell in this very difficult market, and I am signing up projects very selectively in this category as a result. While the premise was intriguing, I'm afraid I didn't fall in love with the novel, so I wouldn't be the appropriate agent to represent it.

Best of luck in your search to find an agent and publisher.

Sincerely,

(Name redacted, but we'll call her "Agent-who-just-burst-my-dreams-like-bubble-wrap"—the kind with the larger bubbles).

Crap. I'd assumed, obviously incorrectly, that once she'd feasted her eyeballs on my masterpiece in its entirety, it was all over but the spell check. After she'd writhed on my roller coaster of joy, humor, angst and grief, I figured she'd say something like, "We're thinking we want to get you on a book tour as soon as possible. You don't get car sick in limos, right? It's funny, because Roald Dahl hurled all over my go-go boots once and after that I rode up with the driver."

Yeah, nope.

Oh, well. We don't write for fame and fortune, do we? Writing should be a passion, an itch that demands scratching on a daily basis, one that doesn't require validation from anyone but us.

I'm going to say that's somewhere around sixty percent true.

Really, it's totally cool. I've faced rejection more often than Kenny Rogers' face has been pulled with a sterile metal instrument. I've been broken up with, picked last at recess—hell, I once had a roommate whose girlfriend loved every rejection letter I received while looking for a job after college. She'd often walk into the living room, glance down at the torn letterhead and say, "Aw, did you get another rejection letter? That's too bad."

Schadenfreude much, you heinous she-wolf?

Here's a shot of me taken back in 1967. It was my sophomore year at Syracuse and my girlfriend happened to have her camera with her right after I was cut from the ultimate Frisbee team.

I held it together pretty well for this photo, but it was indeed a dark day in clammy upstate New York.

I will rise again. Like Nixon. Wait, not like Nixon, like Anthony Weiner. Wait, not like Anthony Weiner. Wait, I know...

I will rise again...like Brittany Spears. Yep, her.

Should Palin Debate Obama? You Betcha.

Snubbed.

We've all experienced it. During our time on this big blue marble, we've suffered the blows of being rebuffed and rebuked, rejected and repelled.

We've been told to sod off, to take a long walk off a short pier, to shut up, pipe down and go away.

And it sucks. It sucks to be dismissed and devalued, because it doesn't take long before we begin believing those who marginalize us. Yeah, maybe my true station in life is perched right on the knobby area of society's cold shoulder; perhaps it's time to stop running this fool's errand of contrived self esteem.

Okay, maybe I'm a little sensie-poo regarding this topic, because, as I've mentioned at least eighty times, I was a fat kid.

Young boys, when playing young boy games, tend to place a premium on athletic ability and a discount on wit and intellect. The slow, small and corpulent are the chaff of the playground; they're the club who familiarly stand elbow to elbow along a chalky line of shame after all the others have been drafted ahead of them for the recess soccer game.

"Go ahead. You can have the rest of them," one captain would often announce to his counterpart as we remainders silently lamented our status. I vividly recall feeling like one of the sinners in the "Left Behind" series, only the reason I stayed on Earth was God's inability to heft a body mass index of thirty-five or above into his infinite bosom.

Rejection assumes a confusing tint when we're not sure why we've been snubbed. During college, I wondered why girls sometimes didn't want to dance with me. Come on, all I was requesting was a three minute conference between her, Spandau Ballet and me.

"Oh, sorry, I need to find my friend," was the most common smackdown, but occasionally I'd get, "Oh my God. Dinner's almost over back at the sorority and I've got bathroom duty this week and I've got to get back in time to hold hair. Sorry!"

And now it's time for my carefully-orchestrated, totally lame segue, combining clueless sorority behavior with bald-faced rejection.

I couldn't help but feel for our old friend, Sarah Palin, this past week, when, in a nearly six-hundred-word diatribe posted to her Facebook page, Palin challenged President Obama to a debate "anywhere, anytime"  to discuss "the issues Americans are actually concerned about," including "an anti-drilling agenda that rejects good paying energy sector jobs and makes us more dependent on dangerous foreign regimes."

Shouldn't this woman, who came within a mere three-and-a-quarter-million votes and a frozen Hades of the vice presidency, be allowed one little debate with our commander-in-chief just to settle the score?

After all, Mrs. Palin humbly requested an opportunity to address the nation on election night, only to be rebuffed in favor of a concession speech delivered by the man whom she carried for all those months, John McCain.

Gracefully bowing out of the political arena to crop dust the field of punditry with her blistering world view, she selflessly extended her reach to a knowledge-thirsty demographic—the reality television audience.

Despite Palin's heroic efforts to team with reality royalty Kate Gosselin, her show was canceled after just one riveting season.

America just wasn't ready.

Now, after all she's been through—the impossible-to-pronounce teleprompter words, the School House Rock Constitutional Crash Course, the endless green room waits while hounded endlessly by Todd and Twig or Twine or whatever that kid's name is—doesn't Sarah Palin deserve an opportunity to spar with the very man she chose not to defeat this November?

Nah.