ON REJECTION AND SALLY MANN
One of the things you’re supposed to learn in school—particularly grad school—particularly MFA programs—is how to take criticism. Karen Tsakos, my first professor in the program at Manhattanville College (now University, that’s a whole other discussion), used to tell a story about the “crying stall.” During her MFA program at Columbia, one stall in the women’s bathroom was never used, so anyone who’d been eviscerated in workshop could run into it to weep. While workshop critique styles had changed somewhat by the early 90s, a professor’s “what you’re writing is so domestic” still stings. This was the same professor who couldn’t bother to type the address correctly on a recommendation she wrote for me.
Clearly, I have some work to do around forgiveness.
I’ve been reading Sally Mann’s latest book Art Work: On the Creative Life in which she admits to thin skin over rejections. She says that after one gallery visit and rejection, she collapsed “in tears of frustration, humiliation and disappointment.” I get it. The “wisdom” is that if you just keep sending work out, you’ll find success. (Maybe. If it’s well-written. If you and the editor have a similar vision. If your last book sold enough copies. If your work fits the zeitgeist. If you keep working hard and improving—whatever that means.) Sure. All that may be true.
I had an exchange three or four years ago with the editor of a haiku magazine. He wanted some changes and, for a while, I was willing. I also made a case for keeping some words that, I thought, made the image pop more effectively. After three or four emails, in which I finally realized I was expected to give up my vision for his, I finally stopped corresponding with him. It was his way or no way. Some editors are like that. Others don’t tell you anything. Another sent a form letter with little check marks about what they liked and disliked. Sometimes people, whose work you’ve carefully provided a lot of feedback on, read your work and give you a paragraph. Rejection comes in a variety pack.
Mann says she rages and weeps. I feel that—and it’s exhausting. But I’m not sure it’s possible to get better at rejection. These are our words and images, things we’ve spent precious hours conceiving and developing. Part of us, I think, is always astonished that the world doesn’t get it—or doesn’t want it. How can that be? So don’t we need to rage and weep? If the mandate of an artist is to see and feel deeply, then that doesn’t apply just to the work itself; it applies to everything: love, housework, pets, politics, work, rejection. We cannot separate them. And who wants to give up the highs so that the lows are more manageable?
The only thing I’ve learned—and I’m lousy at it—is that the feeling eventually passes. In the meantime, it’s misery and bitterness about that Neanderthal who doesn’t understand our vision. However, as Mann says, “I got up the morning after every single one of [those rejections] …and I kept working. My heart did not stop. Perhaps there was some gasping as I sprinted from one bad experience to the next, but each time… I was moving ahead.”
Hang in there. We’re all rocking in the same leaky boat.
How do you handle rejection? I love hearing from you—and thanks for reading.
No events in December. Happy Holidays!
When I have a piece of criticism rejected, I usually get mad and then IMMEDIATELY send it somewhere else, like within minutes. It feels like a way to say "f you someone else will want this!" even if they never get that message :)
I love reading this every month. I was rejected from a fair this year, and it felt terrible. But I thought about how little effort I had put into applying, and figured I would be accepted later, when others bowed out - exactly what happened). Come to think of it, I usually avoid opportunities to be rejected. Maybe I should push myself more!!