The Sting in Nice Rejections

Rating the quality of the rejections may help salve the wound.

The nice ones, the ones that compliment your writing, must mean the manuscript was almost good enough - or maybe, the manuscript was good enough but it was not right for the agent at the time, or maybe the agent liked you, really liked you, but it wasn't the sort of manuscript they had been successful in selling in the past.

You feel better analysing the rejections but don't forget: it's just guess work. It ain't true.

One day, a friend showed me a rejection letter that had given him hope. It said his book was excellent but that the agent didn't feel passionate enough about it to take it out to the market. It was a rejection, but it was encouraging.

The problem was, it was worded exactly in the same way as a rejection I'd received from the same agent.

Comes author Lee Weatherly (Missing Abby, Child X) at her recent SCBWI talk in London. Lee revealed that she used to read the slush pile at David Higham Associates and send out the rejections. She said she was given four letter templates to choose from that ranged in tone from negative to very enthusiastic.

So those rejection letters? They're not personal.

Editorialanonymous (my new must-read after Miss Snark retired) does us a favour with this list of eight things you should know about rejections. The most important thing of all is point six:

Most rejection letters mean nothing. Nothing. (Except that you can cross that publisher/agent off the list.) You need to internalize this fact however you can. Chant it in the bathtub. Write it backwards on your forehead. Listen to a tapeloop of it while you sleep. No matter what the editor/agent says, no matter what words they use, rejection letters mean nothing.

The Chelsea Flower Show, Stephen King and Shutting the Door

I'd like to share this piece about what writers have to do from my blog about the building of my shed.

My dear builders have left me for the Chelsea Flower Show. Here they be, trundling their specially designed Darmuid shed into the grounds for construction.

I miss 'em but I cheer them on. Go, guys. Show those gardeners a thing or two about shed building!

It took the Rooms Outdoor guys eight working days to build the shed. The whole process was a bit like Genesis (the bible chapter not the band)

But then it rained for seven days and seven nights.

It was too wet to move my office out there though we did try.

Now the rain is over and my mind turns to the true purpose of the shed. Which brings to mind Stephen King, everyone's favourite horror writer.

Here is Scary Steve's good advice to writers in his book On Writing:

You can read anywhere, almost, but when it comes to writing … most of us do our best in a place of our own. Until you get one, you'll find your new resolution to write a lot hard to take seriously.

But you don't just need a room of your own, says Scary Steve. "If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot, write a lot."

He then lists places where you can read — waiting rooms, theatre lobbies before the show, long and boring checkout lines, and "everyone's favourite, the john".

The john?

But why read when there are so many other things you can do while sitting on the toilet!

Listen to your ipod

Sudoku.

Play your uke.

Campaign against terrorism

Grate cheese

But I digress.

One location Scary Steve fails to list is Ikea — spiritual home of the flatpack and scene of many a friendly tête-à-tête about family-led design.

I've been spending a lot of time at Ikea, well, spending a lot of money actually, sorting out furniture for the shed.

And Scary Steve is right. Long, boring queues are perfect for reading! I've finished three books so far (including King's book, On Writing).

As for writing a lot, Scary Steve says a writing room "only needs one thing: a door which you are willing to shut".

The closed door is your way of telling the world and yourself that you mean business; you have made a serious commitment to write and intend to walk the walk as well as talk the talk.

How hard could that be?

I mean, Jack Nicholson managed to do it in The Shining.

And look where it got him!

Theophilus Prowse, Head Louse

I don't usually, but I thought why not?
I'm currently doing a dummy for my picture book text, Theophilus Prowse, Head Louse about a girl with head lice and her mum's extreme delousing techniques. This is the Nit and Lice Vacuum Device.

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