Rejection is really, really, not fun. Especially when you’ve been expecting it.
For the longest time, I told myself I wouldn’t enter any writing contests, and that was that. I think I told myself that I was too lazy to search for any that I would be interested in competing in. I told myself I wrote for me and me only. Well, and a couple of friends that liked to read what I wrote.
About three weeks ago, I found a fanzine project that was being led and run by several artists and writers that I admired. They opened applications to the public, and for the first time in my life, I submitted about 1.5k words that I had written in my free time for their judgment.
Long story short, I was rejected. When I found out, I felt like the world had flipped upside down. One part of me yelled, “This is exactly why you don’t enter competitions, this is exactly why you don’t let many people read your writing, this is exactly why — ”
The other part of me that sat quietly in the back of my head said, “Maybe you aren’t as good at this as you thought you were.”
That hurt more than anything. Childishly, I wanted to wrap myself in my own fantasies, hoarding my own words and sentences, and seeking encouragement from the people that I knew would give me it.
I used writing as an escape when I realized that rejection was inevitable. Of course, it was impossible for life to proceed perfectly. Somewhere along the way, I had equated my quality of writing to my self-worth.
And nobody could tell me my writing was bad if I never showed it to anyone, right?
In the grand scheme of things, this rejection wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t an official competition. It had nothing to do with my academics. There wasn’t even a physical copy of the fanzine, so it wasn’t as if I had been planning to make a “debut” as a writer on a printed page.
But maybe that’s why it was so hurtful. I wanted to do this, purely because I wanted to write. There were no ulterior motives. I just wanted to do it, and I couldn’t.
Eventually, after a lot of time spent lying on the grass, looking up at the sky, and reflecting, I realized a couple of things.
One. Anything I create is not equal to my self-worth. I will continue to change and improve what I create, but I may not grow at the same pace. Though I may see my own emotions reflected in what I write, or draw, or play, I am not what I create.
Two. Rejection is something a little different from failure, but it’s just as important. Failure, in my mind, was something that happened when I didn’t meet the set standards. It was something that happened that I could blame on myself. Rejection was different because even after the rejection, I couldn’t easily find something that was “wrong” with what I had done.
Three. Art is subjective. Like, really subjective. Nobody is obligated to like what I create. I am not obligated to like what anyone else creates. Our opinions don’t necessarily diminish the value of anyone’s art.
I’m not glad that I got rejected. I’d rather I didn’t, really. But I think I’ve been given the opportunity to bounce back as someone a little braver, a little more stable, and sure of myself.
Hey, not every single person in the world will reject me. What I say will eventually resonate with someone, and that’s all that matters.
Keep your head up.
