Lessons in Rejection
Writing is my lifeline. Every word inks my joys, sorrows, worries, and fears. When I’m writing, all my cares unravel until they’re laid threadbare on a once-empty page. The constant clicking of the keyboard is my catharsis. Scribbles from my pen outlining a promise of a new season on paper.
I’ve written four books, three of which were self-published, which, in the age of AI, causes eyebrows to shoot up with an unspoken question: Did you really write each book? Yes. As I’ve been shopping my latest book, To Dance Under the Weeping Tree, for almost a year to no avail, I’ve received enough rejections from agents to print out and decorate a wall with. The same historical fiction novel that won a pitch competition at Black Writers’ Weekend in Atlanta. The same book I was working on when I joined the Women & Words cohort of Black women writers two years prior.
Women & Words is a dynamic platform – elevating the voices of underrepresented women in literature. Storehouse Voices, a new imprint of Penguin Random House that celebrates our stories in print, is a direct result of Women & Words. The imprint catalyzes dozens of women who share the same vision of hard copies bearing our namesake as we dash to one airport or another on all-expenses-paid book tours. This is the life I have always imagined for myself.
But reality set in as soon as my plane touched down in New York City last week. I was in town for my second Women & Words conference, and disappointment was already traveling with me. You see, I was selected to attend a craft session on plot instead of speed-agenting. (Imagine several tables of nervous writers pitching their lives in the most crucial minutes of their careers.)
What if I’m not really a writer?
What if I really suck at writing and no one has the nerve to tell me?
What if my biggest fan was really my Mama, who recently passed away?
What if my lifetime dream is just that – a dream?
I knew better than to go down the what-if road. Yet, the questions screamed at me as I walked along Broadway to Penguin Random House.
My therapist once told me that “what-ifs” are the surest way to doubt, rumination, and anxiety. No one ever asks, “What if I live every day carefree, make millions, and amass so much love that emoji hearts follow me along all the paths I will travel in this lifetime?”
I was staying with a friend in Hell’s Kitchen and got lost on the C train in Manhattan. Or was that the E train? I walked into Penguin Random House late, after taking the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Black women are beautiful. This I thought as I stepped into a room filled with regal women sitting in vibrant colors, on-fleek clothing, textured tresses, and brilliant minds.
Welcome back.
What do they possess that I don’t? Bigger platforms? Social media savvy? Words that pierce their readers with every turn of the page?
As I took my seat, my self-esteem sat beside me and began to shrink. Then, imposter syndrome sat opposite me and my ever-shrinking self-esteem. The speakers were insightful and inspirational. I nearly swallowed back tears as the keynote speaker, Cheryl Polote-Williamson, a powerhouse in her own right, spoke about her own rejections on her trajectory towards success. She had us burgeoning writers, record ourselves as we said in unison, “I am an author.”
Powerful.
Though her speech managed to quell some of my doubts, I prayed my eyes didn’t betray the sense of loss I couldn’t get past. I still believed that my book, my six years of hard work, had died. However, Cheryl embraced me in a hug so tight it felt ordained and spoke words of encouragement to me, almost as if she saw my very soul.
Fast forward to the craft session where six of us sat in a small breakout room with one editor. These women were accomplished - doctors, lawyers, publicists with impressive clientele lists. I felt like an outlier. At the same time, I knew I was among kindred spirits – a commiseration of lost belief in ourselves and desperately seeking acceptance into the fold.
The conference culminated with the signing of six authors to the Storehouse imprint. I clapped, genuinely happy for their success as each one was called and given a hat and t-shirt. I will admit to a slight sadness. This was their season to blossom while I had yet to bloom.
I didn’t attend the happy hour afterwards, mostly because networking was more akin to me running the New York marathon at that moment. Instead, I walked around Central Park with a friend and lamented on all I had just experienced.
Rejection is a rite of passage for most writers. I wasn’t the exception. I was the norm. I understood that as I watched the fall leaves dance among the trees. Seeing them fall reminded me of the beauty of letting go and starting anew. I also knew then that I would never stop writing. Words flow through my veins. In rejection, I’d found a sense of resurrection and rebirth.