Kimberly Lang

Rejection 101

Kimberly Lang

I am the petty, if sometimes condescendingly benevolent, tyrant behind the big desk. Sweaty-palmed, wild-eyed writers approach me with caution, hesitantly turn in reams of paper, and then run off to await my judgment, hoping against hope that this time they will have managed to produce the elusive something that will make me happy and garner them praise instead of snarky comments. My opinion is the only one that matters. It’s not good until I say it’s good. I wield extraordinary and unholy power; I can destroy both their self-esteem and their futures with one stroke of the pen. I am the dreaded and evil Freshman Comp teacher. Welcome to English 101. (Insert evil-sounding laugh here.)

Well, at least that’s how some of my students feel.

I’ve been behind the big desk long enough to have racked up my fair share of students who hate my literature-loving guts. Every semester, the students with anything less than an A—some indignant, some teary-eyed, some just plain angry— will come to my office to protest what they see as an undeserved poor grade. Sadly, it then falls to me to introduce these students to the harsh realities of college.

So what does this have to do with writing? Well, as an unpubbed wanna-be I’ve realized that I’m now on the other side of the big desk, and I’m squirming uncomfortably in my little plastic desk. I’m the sweaty-palmed freshman. My opinion doesn’t count anymore. The evil teacher behind the big desk is now an editor or agent up in New York with the power to crush my ego in a single swoop—and I can’t even go to her office after class to complain about it. It’s humbling. It’s scary. I’m back in 101 hell. (Somewhere there is a student cackling with glee and muttering about karma.)

I’ve heard rejection horror stories that make me want to just ditch the whole idea of writing anything and simply hide under the relative safety of my towering stacks of Othello essays. But then I realized something. Everything from the RWR to Romance Writing for Dummies abounds with advice on handling rejection, but confronting disappointed and angry students has probably provided me with the best training for what I’m afraid awaits me out there.

Don’t believe me?

Student: “But my mother/peer review partner/roommate read it and said it was great.” Me: “That’s great, but writing is very subjective. One teacher’s A is another teacher’s C—it all depends on what she was looking for and whether or not you delivered it.”

Student: “But I worked so hard on it. It’s the best I can do.” Me: “I’m glad you worked hard on it, and if it’s the best you can do then be proud of it. But realize that the cold hard truth is that sometimes your best just isn’t good enough—just ask the athlete who trained every day but still didn’t make the Olympics. Learn from this and next time your best will be even better.”

Student: “Don’t you like me?” Me: “I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you. The only thing I can grade is what’s in black and white on this piece of paper.”

Student: “I hate you! You’re so mean! What do you want from me?” Me: “What I want from you is the best you can do and then some. There are standards, and I’m not going to lower them for you. Your job is to rise to the challenge and meet or exceed those standards.”

Student: “What do you know anyway? Where do you get off saying what’s good and what’s not?” Me: Well, at this point the conversation has gone to a place where there’s nothing really left to say. What am I supposed to do? Show him my resume? Explain how it’s my job?

Any of this starting to sound familiar?

As I put the finishing touches on my manuscript and prepare to send it out into the big bad world, I know it’s time to take my own lectures to heart. I’ve been talking it for years; now’s the time to start walking it. I guess I owe those students a word of thanks for forcing me to say those things over and over again. Maybe my words will echo in my head when the envelope arrives in the mailbox.

So this is what the little desk feels like. I’d forgotten.

Karma sucks.