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DOUBTS
Traci Chee
2015
c1950s glass medicine bottle, vegetable cellulose capsules, non-pareils, tissue paper, ink
Traci Chee
2015
c1950s glass medicine bottle, vegetable cellulose capsules, non-pareils, tissue paper, ink
I submitted my first short story for publication in 2006.
Unsurprisingly, it was rejected.
Thus began my adventures in publishing. I joined the thousands of other writers who have to swallow rejection on a daily basis, who accept their rejections as rites of passage, as payment of their dues, as the lashes they must take while they march onward through the perils and pitfalls of their artistic journeys.
In the nine years since then, I’ve racked up 49 additional rejections, ranging from the impersonal “Dear Author”s to the painful “not strong enough”s. Most were kind. Some were not. And in 2014, as I slogged through the query trenches in search of a literary agent, this life of rejection finally dragged me under.
I thought I knew what I was getting into. I’d done my research, after all. I’d read the statistics. I knew the likelihood of squeaking by with only a handful of rejections before an agent recognized my genius was a distant dream, a rumor whispered behind bookshelves and steaming coffee cups, but never a reality.
I wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.
After I sent my first batch of queries, I became obsessed with checking my email. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Every twenty minutes. Every ten minutes. Every two minutes. Maybe something came in. Maybe someone requested my manuscript. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The rejections trickled in. Never fast enough to satisfy me. Never with enough information to help. I was riddled with uncertainty. Should I revise my query? My first ten pages? My whole manuscript? Should I trunk the idea entirely? Was I failure of the most gigantic proportions, completely oblivious to how awful my writing really was?
I tried to distract myself by writing another book, but there was no joy in it anymore. Whenever I faced the page, all I felt was fear and anxiety and self-doubt. It was like rejection had robbed me of my ability to work.
And I loved the work.
I needed to get my mojo back.
DOUBTS arose from this need to turn my dejection and despair into something creative and positive. I needed to build something. Something that would help me laugh off all the “unfortunately”s and “just didn’t love it enough”s. Something that would help me take the power out of rejection and claim it for myself. Something weird and booky and full of joy.
DOUBTS is a compendium of 50 rejections collected from 2006-2014, and as far as books go, it’s a little on the unconventional side. The binding is a vintage pill bottle with a rusty metal cap. The cover is a label, complete with dosage directions. Each page is an edible capsule containing one rejection—verbatim, with the date of receipt. The story is one of epistolary and memoir, pain and transformation. And also one of hope.
Yes, rejections are bitter medicine. They’re also battle scars and badges of honor. They’re proof that I’m trying. That I’m chasing this wild dream of doing what I love. And when my books are published, I’ll be able to shake all my rejections in their little bottle, cackling madly, because I didn’t let them stop me.
I’m not done with rejection. In this business, there are always going to be more of them lying just around the next submission, waiting to pounce. But when that happens, when the “just not for me”s and “not a good fit”s start rolling in again, offering nothing but despair and discouragement, at least I’ll have this.
Because if it ever comes down to it, if I’m ever impulsive and desperate enough, I’ll literally be able to swallow my doubts.
Onward, writers. There are books to be made.
Unsurprisingly, it was rejected.
Thus began my adventures in publishing. I joined the thousands of other writers who have to swallow rejection on a daily basis, who accept their rejections as rites of passage, as payment of their dues, as the lashes they must take while they march onward through the perils and pitfalls of their artistic journeys.
In the nine years since then, I’ve racked up 49 additional rejections, ranging from the impersonal “Dear Author”s to the painful “not strong enough”s. Most were kind. Some were not. And in 2014, as I slogged through the query trenches in search of a literary agent, this life of rejection finally dragged me under.
I thought I knew what I was getting into. I’d done my research, after all. I’d read the statistics. I knew the likelihood of squeaking by with only a handful of rejections before an agent recognized my genius was a distant dream, a rumor whispered behind bookshelves and steaming coffee cups, but never a reality.
I wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.
After I sent my first batch of queries, I became obsessed with checking my email. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Every twenty minutes. Every ten minutes. Every two minutes. Maybe something came in. Maybe someone requested my manuscript. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The rejections trickled in. Never fast enough to satisfy me. Never with enough information to help. I was riddled with uncertainty. Should I revise my query? My first ten pages? My whole manuscript? Should I trunk the idea entirely? Was I failure of the most gigantic proportions, completely oblivious to how awful my writing really was?
I tried to distract myself by writing another book, but there was no joy in it anymore. Whenever I faced the page, all I felt was fear and anxiety and self-doubt. It was like rejection had robbed me of my ability to work.
And I loved the work.
I needed to get my mojo back.
DOUBTS arose from this need to turn my dejection and despair into something creative and positive. I needed to build something. Something that would help me laugh off all the “unfortunately”s and “just didn’t love it enough”s. Something that would help me take the power out of rejection and claim it for myself. Something weird and booky and full of joy.
DOUBTS is a compendium of 50 rejections collected from 2006-2014, and as far as books go, it’s a little on the unconventional side. The binding is a vintage pill bottle with a rusty metal cap. The cover is a label, complete with dosage directions. Each page is an edible capsule containing one rejection—verbatim, with the date of receipt. The story is one of epistolary and memoir, pain and transformation. And also one of hope.
Yes, rejections are bitter medicine. They’re also battle scars and badges of honor. They’re proof that I’m trying. That I’m chasing this wild dream of doing what I love. And when my books are published, I’ll be able to shake all my rejections in their little bottle, cackling madly, because I didn’t let them stop me.
I’m not done with rejection. In this business, there are always going to be more of them lying just around the next submission, waiting to pounce. But when that happens, when the “just not for me”s and “not a good fit”s start rolling in again, offering nothing but despair and discouragement, at least I’ll have this.
Because if it ever comes down to it, if I’m ever impulsive and desperate enough, I’ll literally be able to swallow my doubts.
Onward, writers. There are books to be made.