How I Handle Rejection

If you’re a writer, rejection is not an if. It’s a when — and then another when after that.

I don’t think anyone ever truly gets used to it in the sense of liking it. I certainly haven’t. When a rejection email lands in my inbox, it’s usually a form letter. I read it, mumble a few choice words under my breath, send the email to the trash, laugh, and move on to the next project.

That may not sound especially graceful, but honestly, it works.

Over time, I’ve learned that one of the most important parts of a writing life is not just learning how to revise or submit well, but learning how to handle rejection without letting it take up too much space. That doesn’t mean pretending it never stings. It means refusing to give it more meaning than it deserves.

Most of the time, a rejection is simply a no. It is not a moral judgment. It is not a final verdict on your talent. It is not proof that the work has no value, or that you should stop writing altogether. It usually means that one editor, one journal, or one press passed on one piece at one particular moment.

That’s all.

Of course, rejection has a way of pressing on every writer’s tender spots. It can stir up doubt faster than almost anything else. Even after years of writing, publishing, and submitting, I think that part remains human. A rejection can still catch you on the wrong day and make itself feel larger than it is.

But I’ve become much less interested in letting it have that kind of power.

So I let myself have the brief, human reaction. I roll my eyes. I mutter. I delete the email. Then I go back to work.

Sometimes going back to work means sending the piece somewhere else. Sometimes it means turning to a new poem or essay already waiting for my attention. Sometimes it simply means reminding myself that the work matters more than the response to it.

That has made all the difference for me.

I don’t believe the goal is to become so detached that rejection doesn’t affect you at all. I think the real goal is not to let it linger. Feel disappointed for a minute if you need to. Be annoyed. Laugh at the absurdity of building a creative life in a world so full of form letters. Then keep going.

Especially with a standard rejection, I try not to invest much emotion. If the response is generic, I’m not going to turn it into a personal crisis. A template email does not get to define the worth of work I spent real time and care creating. It goes in the trash, and I move on.

What keeps me grounded is remembering that rejection is part of the writing life, not evidence against it. If you are submitting your work, you are going to hear no. Repeatedly. That is not failure. That is participation. It means you are showing up for your writing in a real way. It means you are taking the risk that comes with wanting your work to be read.

And that matters.

In the end, my approach is simple: read the rejection, mutter something impolite, delete it, laugh, and keep going.

It may not be elegant, but it has taught me something important. The rejection is not the story. The work is. And there is always more work to do.