A few days ago one of the kid-lit writers on my
favorite chat-board asked if there was a code to decipher the ubiquitous
rejections that state something along the lines of, “nice, has potential, not
for us.”
Most writers answered by saying that it means nothing.
Since the rejections that say nothing clear and specific about the story are
essentially forms, the only thing they mean is that your offering is not
accepted. That’s it. For people who are not accustomed to putting themselves in
the line-of-fire that comes with competitive endeavors, (like writers, actors,
musicians etc.) explaining the form rejection would be to say that it’s akin to
getting the standard polite letter to a job application. You know, the sort stating
that you were among the best applicants but alas they cannot offer you the job.
It’s a step above not getting any response, but it tells you nothing. Not even,
truthfully, that you were in fact among the best applicants. Maybe, maybe not.
The chat-board responders were right, of course. The
letters may have been personalized with the writer’s name and the story’s name.
The story may have been referred to as “cute,” “clever,” or “interesting.” But
until it said something along the lines of “the story would be stronger if Mary
is the one who figures out how not to have her little lamb follow her, instead
of the teacher giving the answer,” until then it was not a reaction to her
story. Without comments specific to the story, no decoding will make it so.
Repeat: forms mean NO, and nothing else.
Feeling stuffed full of holiday pie, and with many form
rejections in my journey’s baggage, I sat to let out some of the steam with
what I think these forms would say had they been one hundred percent blunt and
said exactly what they mean. Here’s my version of the decoded message.
“Dear think-you’re-a-writer,
I don’t rightly know if you
are a good writer, nor do I know if your story has potential. I barely had the
time to glance at the first two lines, and the only thing I know is that I
don’t want to read further.
I can’t tell you what to do
with your story, because I don’t care. As we won’t be publishing it, I don’t
have the time to think about it.
If you saw my heaping pile
of submissions, you would not feel special in getting this form. It’s just what
mass submissions have brought overworked people like me to.
Nothing personal,
Ms. Pretty Drained”
Lesson? None. Other than it’s time to move on, and
think no more about it.
And if you get a truly personal response, one where
the editor/agent has something illuminating to say about how Mary and her lamb may
someday break their pattern so the teacher doesn’t have to come up with the
answer, kiss that letter and send virtual air blessing to the editor/agent. They
bothered, in the middle of wading through a huge pile, to craft a response.
I’ve been fortunate to get some of those, and they were helpful. No decoding
needed.
And please don’t cry, Mary.
