just can’t win

Last year I started celebrating my birthday with what I call “rejection cake.” 

Rejection cake wasn’t my idea— it’s something I saw another writer buy herself after hitting 100 rejections. I thought it was brilliant and promised myself I’d do the same. 

I’d long passed 100, but on my birthday two years ago I’d vowed to start taking my writing seriously, which for me meant to start submitting my work again and to not take rejections personally. (Easier said than done, I know.) I submitted short stories and essays, went after residencies and fellowships I’d previously considered out of reach, I queried agents, and began pitching editors. And when I hit 100 a few days before my birthday last year, I ordered myself a rejection cake. 

I enjoy baking, so it was the first cake I’ve ever ordered. And it was ridiculous— only a few inches wide and so tall it collapsed when I cut into it. The bakery thought my request to have the cake proclaim “100 rejections” was a cruel joke, instead writing it in white icing on the (white) tray. (Can we pause and consider why this word has such a negative connotation that my order wasn’t honored? Not trying to make a case that rejection is this exciting thing, but a string of 100 rejections of any kind takes guts. And how can someone decide what another person should celebrate?) So I cut up some strawberries to spell out 100, posted a pic, and savored the sweetness of the cake, yes, but also what it represented. 

my most popular social media post by far

I do think these things are worth celebrating, and figured what better time to do so than the day that commemorates me? (This from someone who celebrated both my birthday and solar return because I’m all for maximizing celebrations.) Maybe my logic seems convoluted, but this is the path I’ve chosen. Because there are different ways to be a writer, and one is to write for yourself because you love it and leave it at that. And that’s one way, for sure. One I respect. But it’s not the way I want to be a writer in the world. I want to share my work. I want to see it in print. And the only way that’s possible is if I work hard to edit and polish my writing, then submit it. A lot. And there’ll be a ton of nos. Tons and tons. And sometimes (all the time?) those nos will sting. 

I’ve decided not to let the hurt stop me. And that’s what I’m now celebrating each year on my birthday— my tenacity, my drive to keep going no matter what. What others might call obstacles or roadblocks, I see as challenges. Possible with enough hard work, determination, and persistence.

This past year I had a different approach to submitting. One hundred rejections in a year takes a velocity that’s not sustainable. Submitting widely doesn’t mean carpet-bombing, and requires tons of research. That year I had more energy and time than I do right now. Also, I’m a big fan of quality over quantity. And aiming for 100 rejections meant I submitted by casting a wide net, sometimes to places that weren’t a super great fit for my work. 

The number of rejections I hit this year was less than my age. I bought a cupcake rather than a cake. Not because of the lower number, but a decadent cupcake felt special enough. (I didn’t take a picture of it, but trust me: major decadence.) 

I love celebrating. I love finding tiny things to rejoice about. Using small happy moments as an excuse to indulge. To focus on the positives, particularly when things are challenging, messy, or just plain hard. I’ve always found it easy to celebrate other people and their achievements. Doing the same for myself has been harder for some reason. But I’ve never struggled doing that on my birthday. Hence, celebrating my rejections then, too. 

The title of this post might not work (there are no songs about rejection cake!), but that’s how rejection can feel— if not straight up losing, then at least not winning. I don’t want to be toxically positive (one of my fatal flaws— I’m definitely a glass half-full person, if you haven’t noticed), but what if we reframed it? We approach submitting like it’s a game, which means there’ll be winners and losers. But what if instead, we thought of it as a skill, or a practice? And every time we submit, regardless of the outcome, we’re sharpening that skill. We’re participating in this practice. 

If you’ve hit a string of rejections lately, or maybe you published a book or a story that’s been greeted by criticism or silent indifference, I hope you can find a way to celebrate your hard work. Submitting our writing— and publishing it— takes bravery, dedication and determination. Persistence. Believing in our work. And a bit of wild hope. All incredibly special stuff. 

Reading Recommendations:

Jennifer Baker’s essay, Black Women Are Being Erased in Book Publishing, is truly a must-read. 

I really enjoyed Brandon Taylor’s new novel, The Late Americans. I attended his event in Madison, WI (where both his first and next novels are set), so there was a great conversation about place and setting. Anyway, he’s very charming and the novel is very good. 

I’ll be interviewing Isle McElroy about their forthcoming novel, People Collide, and am reading that right now, and it’s a super fun body swap story about gender, partnerships, and identity. Out 9/26 and available to preorder!

Wishing you a wonderful week that includes something to celebrate!