I Received Rejections, for My Short Stories, in All Kinds, for 18 Months, Until…
One moment this week.
“I call this town my town—not because I was born there but because it is my mother’s birth place, because Gurage culture in the town is so rich, because from Gurages to the mountains to the culture to the 2000-year-old traditions there are beautiful things you find only in this small town.”
I clicked the email I’d been waiting for. Later, I’d learn I’d glossed over it.
And skipped it.
Before the email, before this moment, I received so many rejections, in all kinds, since August 2022.
We’re sorry to inform you that your submission is not accepted.
We receive so many submissions and sometimes we have to reject even the ones that are good.
Sorry, but this story is not the right fit for us, at this time.
These rejections, even if you don’t want them to, they turn your world black.
And then, there are rejections that make you want to smile, but you don’t—it is still a rejection and you end up feeling happy but also confused. Like this one:
“While we are saying no this time, we admired the quality of your submission.” –Editors of The Forge Literary Magazine
I’ve learned a lot from reading these kinds of rejections. My story can be good but it might not have a home in my favorite lit mag simply because the theme in my story doesn’t fit the theme they’re running, or they’ve published a similar story a month ago.
And then, there are rejections that do not feel like rejections.
“You write well and the piece contains some strong imagery, but we’re currently looking for…” –Jake Roseman, CORNICE
“This story reached the final stage of our selection process, but ultimately we have decided not to accept it. Your story is lovely in every way. In all honesty, I could see this story at a pro lit-mag, and it felt like a disservice to ask for edits to make it fit the narrative format Flash Fiction Online looks for. We would be absolutely delighted to see more of your work in our submission queue!” –Anna Yeatts, Editor-in-chief and publisher, Flash Fiction Online
“This is a powerful, haunting story. I greatly enjoyed reading it and felt that it held intimate insight into the relationships between characters and the ways they both honour and struggle with tradition. Reading this story, I think there is room to hone…” –Sarah, on behalf of the Westerly Team
I’m forever grateful for receiving these kinds of personal rejection emails. As long as I’m able, whether I’m getting money for my stories or not, whether the short story collection book I’m working on ends up on a Bestseller list or not, I don’t think I will ever stop writing again (that’s another post). Still… these editors who took the time to write personal notes made my day. Reading these emails felt like drinking a cup of hot tea. Every time an editor emails me a personal note, I make a note—I can write. Since I was a little girl I’ve always wanted to write. But when someone else, someone who is an editor in a reputable lit mag, tells you you can write you feel acknowledged.
You feel heard.
You feel seen—as a writer.
Before the email, before the moment, I’ve always felt that I will one day get published in a lit mag, I just didn’t know when. When an editor emails you a personal note, that day you dream about—the day your long name will be published next to your story—appears closer. I don’t have a formal writing education. I don’t have an MFA. I don’t have an editor. What I have is a strong conviction that—if I do the work—I will make it in the very competitive literary world. That it might take me a while, a long while, but I will not give up on writing stories. That it might take me even years—because I’m writing stories about people who live in a small town in Ethiopia. Sometimes friends would suggest, why not write about heroines who live in America? Nobody wants to read about this small town, about these people who live in this small town, they would say. If I don’t write these stories about these people, I call my people, about this small town, I call my small town, who would write these stories? So I resolved to stick with my gut, to write stories based in Ethiopia, specifically a small town called Tiya. I call this town my town—not because I was born there but because it is my mother’s birth place, because Gurage culture in the town is so rich, because from Gurages to the mountains to the culture to the 2000-year-old traditions there are beautiful things you find only in this small town. Most of my short stories are based in this town, my heroines and heroes are from this town, this town my mother calls home, this town I call home, this town where my beloved grandparents are buried, this town where if you visit, the locals—whether you’re a 20-year-old or a 70-year-old—bow to you when you pass them.
Still… when the moment I’d been waiting for arrived, I found myself standing still.
After that moment, after I opened the email, I opened another email. A minute later, a thought popped up. Wait a minute. What was that I read just a minute ago? My forefinger shook when I went back to click the email I’d quickly read—or not read. It was right there, in the subject line: Temz Review Acceptance
“Dear Banchiwosen,
We would like to accept “After Our River Vanished” for publication in the twenty-sixth issue of The/temz/Review, which will launch on March 11, 2024…..” –Aaron Schneider, Founding Editor, The/temz/Review
I’m a writer and it should be easy to describe this moment—but it isn’t. I think it took me a minute, or more, to get that I was reading an acceptance letter. In the middle of my office, I stood still, not hearing anything, except the beating in my chest. I read the email, again, and again, and then I jumped up and down, squealing like a little girl. Later, colleagues would ask me, “did you realize you were shouting nonstop?”
I didn’t know what they were talking about.
They’d tell me I was shouting, I did it! I did it! I did it!
Before the email, before the moment, I knew writing these stories mattered to me. I know I would protect writing these stories from their death with everything I have—including their protection from myself, by tuning the unwanted voices out when self-doubting questions pop up, who would want to read these small town people? But I didn’t know how much writing these stories mean to me until the moment arrived, until I received the acceptance email, until I read the email from an editor who lives far away from me and from my people in my stories.
To you who hurls your phone across the room when you read sorry to inform you…
To you who ask yourself what am I doing? why am I writing these stories nobody seems to care about?
To you whose shoulders drop when you receive another rejection email.
To you who shove your notebooks, your journals, your poems, your essays, your stories—deep in the closet—so they would never see the light of day.
To you who look away when a friend casually asks, well, has it happened? Are you published yet?
May you keep writing those poems, those essays, those stories.
May you get back to your paper and pen or your computer—after your phone smashes under the wall.
May you race to the closet, find those hidden notebooks, journals, stories. May you hold these dear things on your chest. May they remind of why you wrote them in the first place.
May you have the courage—the need—to look at that friend in the eye who doesn’t get that you write because you cannot NOT write.
P.S. I will send the link to my short story “After Our River Vanished” when it goes live on The/temz/Review
Congratulations! I’m ecstatic for you and cannot wait to read your story. It’ll be my reward for the week. Your talent, hard work, and persistence will continue to pay off.
Hey, I truly enjoyed this post! I have been writing for years mostly poetry and now I’ve start on stories. But I kept it a secret somewhat. Thinking now maybe because I didn’t think it was worth much, even though readers enjoyed my work. However, among being in the current space of changing my life and going after what I really want. I have rekindled my writing relationship. I have launched a substack, and will begin to submit my poetry for publishing this year. This piece reaffirmed me that I am on the right path and inspired me to keep going with the understanding that difficult times will come. But passion and dedication can withstand that. Thank you for sharing!✨