I still remember the first time I got a rejection letter.
Printed. Formal. Almost polite enough to feel like a compliment—if you didn’t read it too closely.
I had submitted a short story I loved. It was raw, maybe a bit clumsy, but honest. I had stayed up two nights revising it, cutting and rearranging until it breathed right. I believed in it. I had determined that I need to get some awards under my belt. Up until that point, everything I had worked on would sail to the top. I was confident this would be no different. Hard work always paid off.
I also painfully paid for many submissions in different short story competitions. Most ranged between ten dollars ($10) and no more than $15. So, yeah, I was confident. I was giddy. I told everyone about razing through this one competition that was quite great (I don’t have the heart to write the name of the competition).
And then the email came.
“We regret to inform you…”
The words that followed didn’t matter. As is my habit, I just closed the door on the nastiness that must have followed. I’ve never reread them.
But I remember the feeling. That slow sink in the chest. That flush of embarrassment, even though no one else saw it but me. I remember putting the letter in a drawer like it might contaminate the rest of the day.
What struck me most was how final it felt.
As if one editorial committee’s “no thanks” meant “never again.”
As if someone I’d never met had quietly shut a door I didn’t know I needed open.
I didn’t write for weeks after that. Maybe longer. I don’t remember. I just remember avoiding blank pages. They felt too loud. Too risky.
But eventually, I wrote something again. Not because I felt brave. But because the stories kept tugging at me. Quietly. Persistently. Like children tapping at the edge of sleep.
And here’s what I’ve learned since then:
Rejection is not a verdict.
It’s not a label.
It’s a moment. A signal. A chance to pause, maybe—but not to stop.
That letter didn’t mean I wasn’t a writer.
It just meant that piece wasn’t the right fit for that place at that time.
Which, by the way, is not a sentence I would have accepted back then. But here we are.
These days, rejection still stings. But it doesn’t define me. Not anymore.
Now, it’s just one line in a very long paragraph.
And I keep writing.