What Happened When I Decided to Stop Seeking Publication

Some encouragement for times when it’s hard to keep the faith.

[This is a companion post to How Giving Up on Productivity Can Help You Realize Your Creative Potential]

Fair warning: this story doesn’t have a happy ending. At least, not an ending characterized by a traditional success. Granted, success is a complicated idea, but here we’ll use the standard definition of “achieving a desired outcome.” Example: Andre Ingram. Guy plays basketball for ten years in the G League (the NBA’s minor league), finally gets the call at age 32 to play for the NBA, and knocks it out of the park in his first game (yeah, I know that’s a mixed metaphor but hey, I’m not a sports person). Damn, people love that story. Why? Because he kept believing and working hard, and his dream came true after years of effort. Inspiring, right? Well, there’s more to that story. But first I’m going to tell you mine.

Here’s a hard adult truth: for every Andre, there are thousands who just don’t make it. I’m one of those people. Since childhood, I’ve wanted to be a published novelist. I’m a lot of things I’m proud of, but one thing I am not is a published novelist. I have failed. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not too late! And you’re right, it certainly isn’t. But here’s the thing: I stopped believing I would ever get published. And when you don’t believe, you don’t try anymore.

So here’s the story. I’ve always known I’m meant to be a writer. It’s just my thing: writing makes me feel good, and I’m good at it. Not the best, by any means, but I’ve worked hard to get better, and for many years sought publication for my short stories while I worked on novels. And that’s where it all fell apart. Getting published as a writer of any kind is notoriously, hellishly difficult. I was lucky in one important respect: from the very beginning I got what are called “positive rejections,” when the editor tells you they liked your submission, even if they’re rejecting it. Once I was invited to submit additional work. These kinds of rejections are the near misses of the publishing world, and they are encouraging.

That is, at first. But if you are submitting at volume, positive rejections are only ever going to be a small proportion of your total rejections. Most are just form letter no thank yous. I even got a form letter when I submitted that invited work. And that indifferent rejection of requested work started me doubting the whole submissions process. I felt embarrassed, and even more so when I asked if they’d be willing to give me some feedback, as they’d liked my first submission, and I heard nothing. Not surprising, because seriously, why would they give me feedback? They get thousands of submissions. I get it, I really do. I’m not special. But rejection feels shitty regardless of how much you understand that.

Around this time, I found a blog by a writer who was submitting dozens of pieces (by comparison, I only had about ten finished short stories, a not unhealthy number), had a publication list in the double digits, and was still struggling at the same heartbreaking rate to get published as he had at the beginning. Reading his painful account confirmed my growing doubts about publication. There’s developing a thick skin, working hard, and keeping the faith, and then there’s destroying your spirit in a futile effort to seek acceptance from faceless people who hold an arbitrary power and give no shits about you and your dream (whew, that’s a long sentence). Around this time I was writing my dissertation as well, and one day I just decided I wasn’t going to try for fiction publication anymore. I didn’t have the heart to continue.

I decided to fail.

Could I eventually have gotten published? Who knows. I suppose if I’d kept submitting, maybe. A story here and there, over many years. But once I understood how ugly and heartbreaking the process can be, I wasn't sure how much I respected the prospect of publication anymore. Was it worth it just to be able to say I was published? No. It wasn’t. Not to me. So I dropped out of the writing rat race.

But my story doesn’t end there. As part of some post-graduation travel I spent six weeks in Guatemala, where I stayed in a little village on a lake surrounded by volcanoes. In between Spanish studies I wrote a little travel piece and entered it in a writing contest run by the company I’d purchased my travel insurance from. It was the first time I’d done any creative nonfiction, and it was the first time in years I’d completed a new piece of creative writing.

I was shortlisted. Out of 7,000+ entries, I was in the top 25. And they published my entry on their website.

Well, fuck me.

I was amazed and ecstatic that after a several-years hiatus from creative writing, I banged out a shortlist-worthy piece on my first try. But also, this put me in a quandary. The top three winners of the contest received scholarships to study travel writing with industry professionals in Peru. Being shortlisted was a major achievement, but it was also another near miss. I could take it as encouragement that I should start submitting again. . .or I could take it the opposite way. Because here’s my secret doubt and heartbreak: maybe I just don’t have what it takes. Despite being a good writer, I just don’t have it.

And that, my friends, was my real failure. My inability to believe in myself and the value of continued efforts.

I told you there was no happy ending. So now you’re wondering why you’ve even read this. Have I wasted your time? What are my great insights? The wisdom I’ve gained through heartbreak? But I think you’ve suspected all along that I have no miracle advice. No “five ways to live your dream now” bullshit. And you’re right. What I do have is the rest of Andre’s story, and mine. Andre’s first. That game where he knocked it out of the park? His team lost that game anyway. He spent a total of thirteen days as an NBA player, then returned to the G League. But you know what else? During his time playing for American University he was the school’s fifth all-time scorer. He’s played in Australia. He’s the G League leader in terms of games played and three-point field goals. He has two daughters. He tutors kids in math. He keeps going.

And here’s the rest of my story. I decided to count that shortlisted piece as a real publication. And I decided I wasn’t going to start submitting again – but that I was going to believe that I have what it takes. What that means to me now is that I keep going. I keep writing even when I feel like most of it is shit. I keep writing even when I feel crushed by the weight of wondering, what is this for? Is it worth it? Wondering and anguishing, does it mean anything at all?

Yes. It does. Because:

I wrote today.