Rejection sucks. It hurts. Rejection is difficult enough in work and love, but the ache is worse when it’s something you created—when someone with a tiny bit of power in the world has rejected your art. The pain, the urge to jump into a defensive mode is stronger. There’s no opportunity for you to shout, “It’s not me. It’s you.” You receive a letter or email, and you’re out of the running. Easy for the rejector. For the rejected, there are scraps of ego to be pieced back together, and the ever-present question, “What was wrong?”

I would love to get an answer. I want to know how to improve my craft. I understand what I write does not appeal to everyone, but it’s not bad. (My ego will make an appearance now.) I am pretty darn good at what I do. I’m not great. I know that. There are no “great American novels” buried in my head, but there are fantasies and trips through distant worlds. There are characters with which you’d want to belly up to a bar, and that bar would be something of my creation.

If you couldn’t tell, my book submission was rejected recently. The first rejection of a piece stings. I’m lying. It’s more than a simple sting. It’s death by scorpion. There’s a pinch at the first line of justification, “It’s not that you’ve written a bad book, or necessarily written badly.” Ouch. You’re right. You don’t know if I’ve written a bad book. You read only the first fifteen pages. That little gem was followed a few lines later with this, “This experience for you isn’t even rejection. It’s a delay.” What? Hurts like rejection.

In all of the “softening the blow” mumbo jumbo, there was nothing concrete to help me. It was a nice rejection, a soft leather glove swiped across my cheek instead of an armor gauntlet. Yet it leaves behind the same pain and confusion.

I’m in an angry stage at this moment. I waffle between acceptance and anger. A sea which never seems to settle. The letter has driven me forward. I refuse to accept what I do isn’t good or good enough. Isn’t that what rejection should do?