In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy travels down the yellow brick road in the hopes of returning to her family in Kansas. For writers, the yellow brick road usually represents publication. When you send out a poem or novel in the mail, you do it with the highest hopes that it will be pulled from the slush pile and recognized.

So when the manuscript is returned with a “thanks but no thanks” note, you’re devastated. Why didn’t they want to print your poem? Why didn’t they understand your script? How could they not connect with your novel enough to not only publish it, but to send you on a major book tour?

As writers, we’ve all been turned down. Part of the tragedy (and fun) of being a writer, by some masochistic standards, is being able to compare rejection letters. Each rejection letter was once a cause for dismay, but now each returned manuscript is a learning experience for me. The rejection letter (whether it is a form letter or a personal note) causes me to rethink the way
I tried to sell the piece of work.

Sometimes I discover that the rejection is for a very good reason. Did I understand the publication? Did I research what the editor has worked on
in the past enough to know what inspires her? I did not understand the “customer” – the editor, parent, and eventually the child. What did I do wrong? How can I offer a better product next time?

Rejection letters also make me rethink why I base so much of my self-worth on responses. While I respect the editorial opinion and appreciate any response at all, I am reminded that some of the best-selling classic books of our time were turned down multiple times – The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, A Wrinkle in Time. The book, rather than the editorial opinion, has stood the test of time. My book, Mildew on the Wall, was turned down multiple times and finally published several years later, a testimony to persistence – and to the fact that an editorial decision is not always permanent.

Instead of basing the worth of the entire piece on these responses, I take another look at the piece and myself. And I go back to the drawing board. Regardless of the quality of the writing, I know it was not right for this particular publishing house, at this moment in time.

If the rejection letters are personalized beyond “Dear Sir or Madame” I reconsider what the message is. With personal rejection letters that make statements about the manuscript, it is a true compliment, and perhaps an invitation to submit another piece in the future. Occasionally I will redo it, according to their instructions. This has resulted in numerous publications, including Mildew on the Wall. In many cases, I’ve come away with a deeper respect for the tactful ways these editors nurture me through these improvements, resulting in high quality pieces. I’ve learned how to glean advice from handwritten statements.

As I check my mailbox, once again a yellow envelope waits to be opened. Another manuscript is returned home, tarnished by coffee rinds and flipped pages. But the note sparks a sign of hope; the personalized response forces me to dig more deeply into creativity, to develop an aspect of the story that I never considered before. In the far distance, beyond the yellow brick road that leads to Oz, perhaps another acceptance letter is waiting for me.