Don't let the sun set . . .

. . . on a form rejection.

I am not the most aggressive submitter in short story land. I have a really bad habit: when I get a “thanks, but no” on a short story, my impulse is to lick my wounds and hide for a while. Let the disappointment heal. Figure out what went wrong. Revise and rewrite. I need to break this habit.

The problem with this strategy is that when we get those (as my Dad used to call them) “Dear Asshole” letters, it’s just about impossible to know precisely what the editor didn’t like. Was the climax anti-climatic? Did the dialog tank? Would the story have been better in first person than third?

I’m not an expert, but I suspect if the reason had been as concrete as these examples, the editor would have let me know. Those are tangible, fixable problems.

So what is so horribly wrong with my “thanks, but no” response stories? (It could be worse, you know. I saw on a forum that, back in the days of SASE and monster postage expenses, one author got her story back from an editor with “BURN IT” written in red pencil across the top. No other input was provided).

Chances are, nothing is horribly wrong. Go to a restaurant. Look at the forty items on the menu. Pick one. An editor (or an agent for novels) does the same thing with stories. There might be nothing wrong with the pecan-crusted catfish fillet (trust me, there isn’t!), it’s just the editor thought the shrimp alfredo pasta fit the day better. The customer has no reason to explain why the other thirty-nine choices were not selected. The chef doesn’t have any reason to think anything is wrong with the pecan-crusted catfish fillet, and is going to continue to offer it.

And so should you. I don’t let the sun set on a form rejection; I send the story back out that day. No revisions. No rewrites. No regrets. In the absence of specific feedback, I assume that all is well and the previous editor is enjoying his alfredo. My story “The Sonic Tomography Experiments of Dr. Ira Taylor” in (the now-defunct) Port Iris Magazine got three form rejections before Port Iris said they’d take it if I made some changes. Which I made, and they accepted.

Now, what if this happens four, or six, or even ten times with a story? In the short story world, it can take several years for a story to accrue this many rejections, so by then it’s probably time to take a critical look at it anyway. Maybe that story was stylish when written, but enough time has passed to make it seem dated. Or maybe I’ve changed as a writer enough that I can tell the same story better. That’s when it’s time to revise, rewrite, but hopefully not regret.

The world of publishing moves slowly enough. I can’t afford to make it slower by constantly hemming and hawing over what I suspect an editor might be thinking if only she would have told me. She'll probably love the pecan-crusted catfish when she tries it.