Rejection a la Cat
Last week I got the best rejection email I’ve gotten in over a decade of sending work out for review. After grad school I learned that academic rejections were the meanest, for the imposter syndrome of academia rears its head in too many sharp words. (If you know, you know!) More recently, I’ve learned that rejection hits differently when tied to the emotional vulnerability of freelance writing. When I dipped my toe into that world I learned that rejections could be sent with a little more kindness—certainly more than what is available to overly stretched professors editing for journals to satisfy service obligations. But the reality is that any “no” stings.
One might think that the “Thanks, but no” part of a rejection email is the final blow. But I’ve found that a surprising amount of power is loaded into their opening and closing phrases. For me, the gut punch of the second sentence’s “however” is softened by an opening line that starts with “Thanks for.” Ending with “sincerely” is like being dropped head first on to a pillow while “best” feels like landing on concrete.
What made this recent rejection email such a work of art was more than its wording. The editor, who I’ll call M, wasn’t trying to write a poem when he hit the send button. Yet, if a rejection email can make one feel seen, as only good art (and conversation) can, this email became something of a lyrical poem! Here’s what he wrote:
“Dr. Davey: This isn't quite right for us, being a tad on the esoteric side, but thank you for letting me consider the idea. Best, M.”
For M’s magazine I had offered to write about the power of a recent video game called Stray. It’s a game where you play as a cat, doing cat things, navigating a world that is falling apart. Watching over the shoulders of my game-playing family members, I, an observer, have felt something akin to affection for this not real cat. And isn’t that the beauty and power of fiction? Of storytelling? I have been accused before of being too esoteric in my writing. M isn’t the first to make such a statement. I am quick to make what Lee Maracle calls concatenated links between seemingly disconnected ideas. For some, the leap is uncomfortable to make with me. For M, I wanted to write about the philosophical questions prompted by a game set in a futuristic world overrun by technology. I wanted to unpack the power of a story told with almost no dialogue to guide it along. In a world without words I wanted to ponder how so much could be communicated. Who wouldn’t want to read such a piece?
M didn’t. Or at least he didn’t see a place for it in his publication. But he did thank me for letting him consider the idea I had shared. That word “choice” is key! To consider: to think carefully about. Care is baked right into the Oxford definition. With cat-like care, as if he had adopted the philosophy of Stray itself, M purred his rejection across the internet and somehow, when reading his words, managed to make me feel comforted even as I was being rejected! His opening — calling me Dr. — meant he had taken the time to read my email signature. In one short sentence he took more care with my lifelong learning journey than so many others, those who have said “no” with barely an email shrug. When someone puts herself out there, idea after rejected idea, be they student or writer or a friend having a conversation in a coffee shop, the little things matter the most.
I see a concatenated link between M’s rejection email and the world in Stray that is both falling apart and yet held together by creatures with both hearts and minds. A mismatched coming together of ideas is inherently important to fostering human connection for a future filled with many iterations of “Thanks, but no." The rejection is made less bleak when words are shared with care.
loved this! xx