The Risk in Writing: Rejections Galore

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This past weekend, another couple helped my husband and me paint the foyer in our nearly century-old vacation home, leading to a discussion about various art forms, from writing to painting.

Recently, one of my free-spirited, creative friends and her equally creative husband spent the weekend with my husband and me at an old house we purchased and are working to rejuvenate. My friend is a talented and passionate teacher with a penchant for languages and writing. Her husband, though he works in the technology field, is a gifted painter. My own husband builds lamps from

Writing foyer paint
While I don’t have the patience to actually paint the detailed woodwork featured in the foyer, and while the work in the above photo is unfinished, I’m proud of my vision, albeit executed by a more detail-oriented friend.

re-purposed materials and has recently begun creating beautiful stained glass pieces. And I? Well, I identify mainly as a writer, though I dabble in painting and amateur photography from time to time.

As the four of us painted the front foyer of our 1919 farmhouse, my friend gave me candid feedback on my novel, which I recently asked her to read, giving her free rein to rip it apart if necessary. She gave me some really insightful advice, and admitted she felt relieved that I had taken her constructive criticism so well (granted, she did an excellent job tempering her criticisms with compliments, but I digress).

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One of my husband’s latest artistic endeavors includes making stained glass pieces. This one hangs in a friend’s kitchen.

She followed her critique of my novel with the admission that she had decided she was no longer going to identify as a writer, in part because she needed more validation than she felt writing could offer her, and in part because writing simply offers less tangible and fewer results. When you paint a wall, for example, you can see the effect of your efforts almost immediately–as proven by the way our foyer brightened up with every coat of  paint. When you write a story or a novel, the progress is often much slower, and much less noticeable. In addition, while a newly-painted room is sure to get oos and ahhs, a story or novel is likely going to face dozens and dozens of rejections before it ever sees an acceptance (if it ever sees an acceptance).

You can show people a painting, a sculpture, a photograph–and they need only seconds to get at least a cursory appreciation of your work. But someone has to invest a lot of time and energy to read your poem, story, essay, or novel. And lots of activities vie for our time and attention. Writers compete for an audience with TV shows, movies, sports broadcasts, sleeping, errands, etc. We must not only write our story, but then convince people to commit their limited time and energy to reading it. After all, more energy and time are required to read a book  than to look at a piece of artwork or watch a film or play.

 

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Plus, producing a tangible product, like a painting or a sculpture, can be satisfying. You can display it. You can sell it. You can hold it, gaze at it, touch it. All of these things are much more difficult, if not impossible, to do with a poem or novel–not to mention the fact that a written work never feels finished. We feel always like we could find a more perfect word, more effectively structure our chapters, more expertly develop our characters or write our dialog or set our scene or or or…. At a certain point, we just have to decide it’s done, whereas other artistic endeavors we can more definitively finish, and that completion is satisfying and fulfilling.

 

I understand what my friend is saying. I have often questioned my drive to identify as a writer. Is it really necessary? Why do I care so much? Why do I write? It’s really hard, and I enjoy many other forms of creative expression–painting, singing (though I can’t say I’m any good anymore), sketching, design, photography, and even theater at one point in my life–and these open me up to far less criticism and rejection.

 

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As a writer actively seeking publication, rejections have become routine for me. Getting published is like winning the lottery–just as rare, but just as thrilling. I think maybe that’s one reason I keep writing: It’s hard (really, really hard sometimes), but the sense of accomplishment and elation I experience when a publication accepts my pitch, when I see my work in print or on-line, or when I get that long-awaited paycheck for an idea hatched a year before, far outshines the sense of disappointment that accompanies (yet another) rejection. Maybe I have come to accept that rejections are part of writing–at least for someone who seeks publication. I am no less a writer for having become more familiar with a sense of resignation at another thanks-but-no-thanks than with a sense of validation and accomplishment. In fact, another rejection at the very least means I’m producing enough work–enough writing–to send out into the world. The real fear sets in when I haven’t written anything new in a while–when my list of rejection e-mails shrinks because of a dearth of ideas, a sort of writing drought. My fear of having nothing to write far outweighs my fear of rejection. So, really, maybe that’s how I know I’m a writer.

Writing Rejections
Above, you can see the many rejections my desire to write has recently survived. With persistence and resilience, I have manged to find homes for some of these pieces.

My fear of having nothing to write far outweighs my fear of rejection. So, really, maybe that’s how I know I’m a writer.

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Creativity in Different Contexts

I would not say I am facing writer’s block. No, not exactly. I am still writing: blog posts, diary entries, college reference letters, the occasional short personal narrative.

But I cannot seem to type the first word of a novel for NaNoWriMo. I have several loose, underdeveloped ideas, not one of which has coalesced into anything remotely resembling a plot. In the face of this complete (but hopefully temporary) dearth of cohesive ideas for another novel, I had begun to feel tempted to wonder if maybe I’m not, after all, a creative person. The identity crisis this admission would lead to would be nothing short of catastrophic, though, so rather than give in to the temptation to see myself as, well, not myself, I decided to take inventory of my creativity. Essentially, I had to remind myself that while my primary means of creative expression is indeed the written word, I am creative in many other ways, as well: photography, painting, lesson planning, and re-purposing–as well as writing. The resulting morale booster is below. Maybe now that I have reaffirmed my creative ability, I can conjure up an idea for NaNoWriMo…

Novel ideas in any context fall under the umbrella of creativeness.

Photography

I admit to knowing absolutely nothing about the mechanical technicalities of photography–I cannot, for example, work a real camera, nor can I develop film, nor am I exactly proficient at photography programs like Photoshop. I do, however, know a bit about the art of actually composing a quality photograph. I am no stranger to concepts like perspective, the leading line, framing, or the rule of thirds, for example–and naturally used many of these techniques before ever learning they were “actually things.”

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The unedited photo above, taken on the shore of Lake Michigan in Covert, Michigan, in early in August, demonstrates the principle of the leading line. The wooden walkway disappearing around the bend acts as the natural entrance into the photograph, and, in a twist of luck, the curve of the clouds above matches the curve of the walkway and shoreline below.
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This photograph, also unedited, taken on the shore of Lake Huron in Lexington, Michigan, in mid-August, demonstrates perspective, the rule of thirds, and something of a leading line, with the railing leading from the upper right corner of the shot, out towards the water.

Painting

Though I haven’t taken an art class since middle school, I have always enjoyed art. I rarely get to paint, but when I do, I find the act cathartic and liberating. It is one of the most relaxing, freeing, and expressive activities I have experienced.

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I painted the above piece during my freshman year of college at Michigan State.  I laid the canvas on the floor of my room, and painted it using, if I remember correctly, paper towels–and maybe some plastic grocery bags! I was too destitute to afford paint, canvas, and paintbrushes, so I improvised. The painting hung on my college bedroom wall throughout my undergraduate career, and currently hangs in our kitchen. People who see it often compare it to Van Gogh’s Starry Night, a compliment I am humbled and happy to receive.  
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Most recently–this past spring–a friend and I turned our backyard rain barrels into canvases, transforming the drab black barrels into works of art. We spent roughly five hours with our husbands and my dogs in my husband’s hand-built, custom backyard workshop/shed/garage one Sunday, painting, talking, listening to music, and enjoying the fresh air as it blew through the open garage door. Above you see the barrels before our artistic efforts, and below, after. My friend’s is on the left, and mine is on the right. As with the first painting, several people have compared my rain barrel to Starry Night. I was trying to make it look like a jar of fireflies…
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When I was away at college in Michigan, I deeply missed Virginia Beach, a place I visited often during my high school years. This painting, which for a while was displayed on the mantel in my college home, alongside some paintings I convinced my roommates to compose with me, was my attempt at expressing my love for the boardwalk and beach. I also tried to work with perspective. Anyone who knows me and sees this painting immediately recognizes it is Virginia Beach.

Repurposing

When we think of creativity, we tend automatically to think of the act of creating something from scratch, and by default jump to activities like painting, sculpting, writing, singing, jewelry-making. But novel ideas in any context fall under the umbrella of creativeness. Finding a new use for an old item is its own form of creativeness. Both my husband and I excel in this area–perhaps he more than I, as he is actually capable of making new things out of old things, whereas I am only capable of envisioning what new things the old things could become. Our home is full of many of his creations, usually lamps, made of old gears, driftwood, piping, tripods, factory equipment, antique toys, old instruments, etc.

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An old, wooden road sign my sister and I salvaged from a burn pile in rural Vermont is now featured as wall decor in my husband’s and my bedroom, particularly appropriate because I am a high school teacher.
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A second wooden road sign, pulled from the same burn pile in rural Vermont, now hangs above our stairway, pointing the way to the family room and kitchen when one arrives at the bottom of the stairs.
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My husband fashioned the table lamp above from a piece of partially charred driftwood he found on the beach in the Northern Neck of Virginia. The small brass duck perched on the wood, he bought at an antique store in Kentucky, originally to sit atop the motor of his hot rod, where it did indeed spend several years tooling around Virginia and North Carolina in the open air. When he sold the hot rod, the duck found a new, less mobile perch on the base of this lamp.