The Hard Nos

Nowhere to go but around

All month my inbox has been a firehose of No. I wake at 6:36 am to a rejection from a literary magazine. My essay was promising, they say, it “sparked a discussion” amongst their editors, but they are not accepting it for publication. “We hope you’ll keep us in mind for future submissions.”

This is the fourth such rejection in January, as if the editors have been sitting on their reading queues and now that we’ve flipped to a new year, they’re cutting loose the dead weight.

One morning the No I wake up to comes from a prestigious writing residency, a place that all the fancy writers, the ones with acclaim, list in their literary bios. For the wannabes, this place is drool-worthy. Everybody wants to say they are wanted by this publishing house.

More than 500 people applied for six spots in the residency, the email tells me. They have sent out 494 rejections. The one I receive doesn’t even bother to insert my name. It’s just a bald “Hello” and “I wish we were emailing positive news today, but unfortunately…”

I knew as soon as I saw the sender in my inbox, didn’t need to open it to feel density of the No. If it’s a Yes, they don’t email. They call you on the phone.

Rejections are legendary in the lit world. A writer’s right of passage. Everyone likes to tell the story about how JK Rowling’s first Harry Potter manuscript got 12 Nos in a row, or how Stephen King’s novel Carrie was rejected by 30 publishers. The story goes that his wife fished the manuscript from a trash can and sent it to the 31st publisher, the one who said Yes. It sold a million+ copies in one year.

Last week I had a bad day awash in the “despair of almost there.” I got teary on two different calls with friends as I told them about the January rejection avalanche.

Sarah said, “This is the hard part, I’ve been dreading this for you.”
Nicole said, “Seriously, fuck those guys.”
Then they both said, “Keep going.”
“Don’t stop now,” they said.

I wasn’t planning on giving up, but I also needed to hear that encouragement from two women who are well acquainted with both my writing and my ambition. Even when you know how the game is rigged and how you need to play it, even when you know you’re good at what you do and you have a real story to tell, an unbroken run of rejections is brutal.

How does the saying go? “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” I mean, in this particular case that is exactly how book publishing works. You query over and over and over and over again, you send out your book proposal, your first three chapters, your first 10 pages, your synopsis, your elevator pitch, your justification for why the world needs this book now and why you are the one to write it. You look up your favorite authors’ literary agents and query them. You look up lists of agents who say they want your kind of manuscript and query them. You beg introductions to influential book publishing type folks from anyone and everyone you can think of, and query them. You keep doing this for weeks and months until you get a Yes.

“One Yes is all you need!” an internet stranger chirped at me in an attempt to be supportive. Thing is, I don’t want one Yes. I want a whole goddamn parade of them.

I want to write a book. No, I am writing a book. Two different ones, actually (yes, I know, insane). And I want these books to go out into the world, to find readers far beyond the reach of my own two arms. I believe I have something to say that’s worth hearing, and stories to tell worth reading, and the books I am writing will connect with people, make them feel seen or make them see something new. What are stories, if not a light?

Writing is just half of the equation. I can sit here at my keyboard and type away for hours with the dog snoring in the red chair behind me and the sun slanting shadows across the field. This is the creative labor that requires all my skill and craft. This is the joy. This is the part where the story gets told.

Then there is the business side of writing—convincing the gatekeepers that I and my words are worth a gamble. On this side of the equation, it’s not enough that I have a story to tell or even that I tell it well. It must also be a story that will sell to a board room in New York and to readers in a book store. Not only do I have to create a compelling capitalist case for the worth of my work, I have to find the right people in the right places with the right access and convince them that they should hear me out. This is the part where the story gets sold.

I’m having no trouble at all with the creative side. The business side is much harder—and lately it has been sucking up so much of my time and energy. All of this work and all of these Nos.

Even if I’m not giving up, repeated Nos require examination, like Why am I doing this?

I know why I’m doing this, but what I had to ask myself this week is: Why am I doing this in this way? Like, why did I apply to this super buzzy writing residency that has only six openings? Why did I choose that one, out of all the other perfectly suitable but less fashionable options out there?

Validation. That’s why. I applied not because I looked at this thing and thought, “This suits me perfectly!” but because I said to myself, “If this place chooses me out of 500 other writers, that means I matter. Once this prestigious place links its fabled name to mine, the rest of the literati will see my worth and open their doors to me, at long last.”

That’s what I was thinking last October when I sent in my application packet, whether I admitted it to myself or not.

I’m too old for this bullshit. I know better. I’d like to think that I’ve evolved past the Shoulds but here I’ve fallen into the same old trap of doing what other people say I Should do, wanting what the status quo says I Should want. Trying to force myself into a shape that perhaps I was never meant to form.

I admit to a tiny chip on my shoulder. A micro chip, if you will. (Sorry.) It’s about getting started on the wrong foot, at the bottom of the hill, on the wrong side of the tracks, around the blind corner. So far behind before I ever got started. Growing up the way I grew up under the thumb of a high control religion meant I spent at least three decades, maybe more, not having any idea what my options were. I didn’t just lack the guidance, I lacked the windows to see out of. The choices I made in my early adult years were choices of survival, not opportunity.

It is only now, in the middle of my life and from the other side of an ocean, that I can seize the days with both hands and wring what I want from them. It is only now that I have carved out a new kind of life that I have the luxury of turning my attention to doing what I really want, what I love. This, I know, is a gift.

So instead of following the prompts of what is popular and prominent with the MFA crowd, I am going to take a left turn and seek out what serves me best. I know who I am and I know the magic I can conjure. I’m going where my story and I are wanted. As writer Benjamin Schaefer wrote in his essay All of My Accepted Stories Started with Rejections, I’m going “where it’s warm.” AKA: Where they want me.

Or as Barbara Kingsolver put it: Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed (your manuscript) “to the editor who can appreciate my work” and it has simply come back stamped “Not at this address.” Just keep looking for the right address.

Or Maya Angelou: Only one attitude enabled me to move ahead. That attitude said, “Rejection can simply mean redirection.”

This spate of rejections I’m fielding right now is nowhere near the end of the path. It’s merely an indication of temperature. There are warmer routes. Not a “No” but a “Next.” I can use these Nos as signage and adjust my direction accordingly.

It’s a lesson not just for publishing woes, but for all the Nos that come my way. What does this rejection say about the direction I am trying to go? Warm or cold?

When I’m as discouraged as I was last week, I ask myself pointless questions like: “How much harm did I do to my nascent literary career by leaving the USA where all the publishers are?” Sure, though: most of the publishers are in New York City and I was a six hour flight west anyway. Now I’m an eight hour flight in the other direction. Not that big of a deal, really.

Anyway, would I have stayed in the States if it meant I’d have a better chance of landing a book deal?

Hell, no.

I’m forever glad I got out (especially considering what looms ahead on January 20th). Living here in Portugal gives me all kinds of new stories to tell.

And if not for Portugal, chances are I wouldn’t be on Substack where it is nice and warm. Thanks to all of you readers for making it so cozy.

---

If you want to support my work…

You can choose from a couple of tiers of paid subscriptions. In addition to my undying gratitude for your support, you’ll get more of my writing, which is what (I assume) you’re here for! Once a month for paid subscribers only, I will post an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress. The first one is here, for free, if you want a preview.
OR
If you’re not into paid subscriptions, but you’d still like to show support every once in a while, you can leave me a tip via Venmo or Tipeee.
OR
If you want to carry on reading these posts for free because you can’t or shan’t pay, that’s perfectly fine. I do not hide Long Scrawl essays behind a paywall.

NO MATTER WHAT: Thank you for reading. Thank you for telling me when my writing means something to you. That matters most of all.

---

Copyright © 2025 LaDonna Witmer • {all photos by author}