On celebrating my first rejection

What following your heart really looks like

Dec 01, 2024

Last Thursday, I took the afternoon off for Christmas shopping - just a day after submitting my book to the publisher of my dreams.

As I walked along the high street I felt like Bridget Jones in that bridge scene. Do you know the one I mean? Where she heads to work, in a kind of post-coital haze. Either Mark Darcy or Daniel Cleaver (I don’t remember which) had been between her sheets that same morning.

This pic is the best one I could find:

She’s at peace. Radiant. Satisfied with her lot. Almost smug. I’m guessing she’s thinking something along the lines of ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Is this real? Yes it is. At last.’

That was me on Thursday – only it had nothing to do with a man.

I strutted along my own hometown’s high street, the wind blowing in my hair – free of work, free of concern – having just read an email from my dream publisher, thanking me for sending in my work, telling me they’d be in touch soon.

In Waterstones, as I chose a present for my Dad, I felt an almost violent surge of joy as I perused one puzzle book, and giggled out loud.

‘I can’t believe I’ve got to this stage! I can’t believe I’m submitting. Whatever happens next – What a moment! I want to take this in.’

It’s no small thing to devote three years to a project in the way that I have, alongside mothering two teenagers, and running a business, and the general chaos of life.

It’s not easy to take the seed of an idea, and transform that seed into a sh*tty first draft, then a slightly less sh*tty second, and third, and fourth (and by now I’ve lost count), into something you feel in the centre of your being is a piece of art ready to be seen by others. A piece of art that might bring others joy, inspiration, make them feel less alone. That will bring you deep satisfaction to share.

It’s a nuanced process knowing when it is ready – when you are ready – to reach out and see if anyone would like to join hands with you, to take it out into the world. When you know that they will be reading something that is so very precious to you, cold. When you know, that even if they like it, and want to collaborate with you, there will most likely be significant rewrites needed. Definitely more edits. But on some level, you know it is whole and complete.

It is in your hands. It is here. It is time – even though knowing it is time, also terrifies you.

Especially when it is a story from your own life.

But memoir is notoriously hard to sell. Almost impossible. Agents’ inboxes are flooded with mediocre memoir.

Which brings me to what happened next.

On Friday – the day after my glorious afternoon at the shops, celebrating myself, my book, this moment – I received my first rejection.

It was from a woman I deeply admire, at a small agency – the first person I sent it out to, a couple of weeks ago.

It was a kind email, urging me not to be discouraged, reminding me that the business of publishing is highly subjective, and that another agent may feel differently – but she did not feel she could offer me representation.

I was in my office, a mile from home, when I spotted her note in my inbox.

For one split second, before I hit open, I thought ‘this is it. This is the moment. It’s a yes please! Send me the whole damn manuscript!’

But then I read her words, and went a bit numb.

Then I took a deep breath, and left a friend a voice note about something that couldn’t wait until Monday. I told her I had finished the book, and had started to send it out – that I was celebrating my first rejection. My voice was flat, a bit distant.

Then I wept for a bit.

Then I danced, cleared some emails, wept some more, and drove home to a large glass of red.

A couple of days have passed, including two good nights’ sleep, and this is what I know to be true right now:

… When we follow our heart, we risk heartbreak. Creativity is borne of the heart – following our creative longings is going to involve pain sooner or later. This is not new information; this book has broken my heart multiple times already.

… But isn’t that what also expands us? I’m sure there are countless quotes from wise philosophers and poets I could slip in here. This one comes to mind:

The wound is the place where the light enters you—Rumi

… One way of seeing these things, that I have read in countless blogs on the publishing process, is that each rejection means you are one step closer to a yes. But that isn’t necessarily true. It might be. To keep walking onwards, this perspective may help me gather my courage in spurts, soldier on, blast through the fear, and keep sending it out.

… But what feels more true is: when we follow our heart, there is no guarantee of ‘success’ in the traditional sense. It may go against what our ego believes is most important, but we can let go of what we think needs to happen next, and trust that whatever the outcome, choosing to make the thing we feel called to make, enriches life.

… And as we do, at times we will likely want to curl up in a ball, a bit like this:

… Or eat our bodyweight in crisps – or whatever else we can get our hands on – like this:

We may wish to stop.

We may wish we had never started.

We may fear we have been naive and ridiculous to pour so much into what we have made. We may berate ourselves for doing so, when it seems that there is no point.

But we can always pause.

Pausing isn’t giving up.

Pausing is necessary.

Even for one day, two days, a week.

We can breathe deeply, and begin again.

Take the next step. We will know when it’s time.

When our heart feels like it is breaking we can place our hand on our chest and breathe.

We can remember we are safe, we are held, we are here.

That this is what it means to be alive.

Glitter and Biscuits

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