While most of the rejections I ever received were of the form letter variety (“not at this time” or “does not fit our current needs”), I did get two that encouraged me to keep trying, perhaps for longer than was good for me.
Rejection #1
The first rejection was for a story that I had written and revised in my first writing workshop while I was pursuing a BA. It included an encouraging note with suggested changes that would improve the story. Not only did this rejection encourage me to submit and submit, it encouraged me to resubmit this particular story over and over again. .
(If you are familiar with Time’s Arrow, you may accuse me of plagiarism, although I had not read the story by Martin Amis prior to writing this story. When I finally did read the story, I considered it a cease and desist order and stopped working on it altogether.
Rejection #2
My most memorable fiction rejection, however, was from a literary journal called Oyster Boy Review. I had dashed off this little ditty, "Public Announcement from a Tapeworm."
Consider a fine organism like me, the tapeworm—less complex over time, asexual reproduction, streamlined for survival:
Hatch.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
And die.
Laying eggs in your feces all the while, you probably don’t even know that I’m hooked into the side of your small intestine. So please, Homo Sapiens, remember, evolution does not go up or down. Tapeworms are just as evolved, just as fit to survive, as anyone else.
Maybe, my unpublished status isn’t such a mystery after all.
Unfortunately I didn't save the rejection emails I received. Yes, I received two emails, one sent soon after the other. One email was an inquiry into what I was smoking, which was nothing. This tapeworm-based flash fiction was the result of innate mental disturbances and lack of judgment.
The other I will have to paraphrase as best as I can from memory: "No. Rejected."
The rejection may have had a few more words, but what I remember is the clipped nature of the email, whose few words communicated a palpable anger that I done such a thing. My submission was an affront to all that was good and decent about Oyster Boy Review.
How was this rejection encouraging?
In some perverse way, the fact that I could illicit such a reaction form an editor of an established literary magazine had an emboldening effect.