Salon des Refusés by Mary Dutta

 

This week I received the edits on a short story for an upcoming anthology, one in which I was invited to participate. Having been asked to submit a story for the project, I knew rejection was unlikely as long as I followed the guidelines and was receptive to editing. It’s a far cry from my first publishing attempt.

That was for an open-call anthology. For such works, a conference/group/publisher invites story submissions for an anthology with a specific focus or theme. Invariably, there are more submissions than slots available, and many authors will receive rejections rather than a hoped-for acceptance. That was the case with my first story, and with others since. Along the way, I have learned some of the possible reasons why a story might be passed over and that has given me a new perspective on the disappointment that comes when an editor says no.

Some stories are rejected for the simplest of reasons: failure to follow the submission guidelines. Maybe the word count exceeds the stated limit, or the author fails to format as requested. Maybe the story doesn’t fit the theme, or the subgenre. A cozy tale is not going to find a home in a noir collection, for instance.

Even if a story checks all the boxes, editors are not simply choosing the “best” of the many entries they receive. There are a range of considerations that go into choosing which twenty or so stories to include in any given anthology.

One important consideration is variety. If a call for an animal-themed anthology elicits a flood of dog stories, the editor won’t accept them all even if the stories are well-written and engaging. Similarly, if an editor is faced with multiple stories where poison is the weapon of choice, or the killer’s motive is revenge on an ex, they won’t all make the cut. Reader interest is not well served by a collection of similar stories that all blend into each other.

Experience has taught me that rejection can be due to factors distinct from the quality of my writing, and that it can also indicate a story in need of further revision. I have had stories accepted on second (or third!) submission, finally alighting on the right combination of determining factors. That first story found a home and transformed me into a published author.

If I ever publish an anthology of my short stories, I’ve got the perfect title: Salon des Refusés. The phrase can be translated as “Exhibition of Rejects.” It dates to 1863, when the Paris Salon rejected many paintings that did not adhere to its strict, conservative parameters. There was enough of an outcry that the rejected works got their own exhibition.

I’m not putting myself in the company of Manet, Pissarro, Cezanne or the other artists who featured in that long-ago salon. But when my work is rejected, I remind myself that I am in good company, and trust that my creative efforts will eventually find a home.

Have you found a way to accept rejection and to keep on trying?

Here Comes The Crime - A Mini-Mystery

A few weeks ago I received a rejection in the mail - a very nice rejection. The editor took the time to offer a handwritten note, explaining that she liked the work but couldn't use it because an element of the story did not fit the magazine's criteria.
Because I had written this mini mystery for a very specific market, I can't use it anywhere else, so I thought I'd share it on WWK. Have some fun - see if you can solve the mini mystery!

When a bride’s family heirloom pearl necklace is stolen, Cady Miller, the owner of the Five Golden Rings Inn, must save the wedding day.

Here Comes the Crime

By Shari Randall

I had only ten minutes before the lovely strains of “Here Comes the Bride” turned into police sirens. Before people started talking, texting, and tweeting about the theft at the Five Golden Rings Inn.

My Inn. The Inn I’d worked so hard to transform into the most beautiful bridal venue in the county.

Just an hour earlier, beaming bride Ava Lee and her attendants had swept happily into the Inn’s

dressing room. Mama Lee carried a velvet box with her family’s heirloom pearl necklace. Maid of honor Rosie Lee-Mayhew, Ava’s sister, bustled in and out readying bouquets. Bridesmaid Lucy Masters fixed Ava’s makeup. The room was a whirlwind of lace and flower petals as we prepared for the wedding ceremony in the Rose Garden.

Little Harper Mayhew, the bride’s niece, ran into the room, scattering daisies. “I’m making everything pretty, Miss Cady,” she told me.

“Don’t get your dress dirty playing with Keegan,” Mama Lee warned. Keegan was the bride’s Golden Retriever.

“I’m making Keegan pretty, too,” Harper said.

“A dog in a wedding,” Mama groaned as she adjusted Ava’s hem.

“Very common these days,” I said as I draped Ava’s veil. Ava winked at me over Mama’s head.

“Newfangled weddings,” Mama groused as Harper danced from the room.

Rumor was that Keegan wasn’t the only thing upsetting Mama. Rosie had left her husband, Tim Mayhew, for Jesse Wood. As a teen, Jesse had done time for theft. Now he had a steady job at the auto shop. Still, some people wouldn’t give him a break. Mama was one of those people.

Soon Ava was ready. She opened the jewelry box and gasped.

The box was empty.

“Jesse,” Mama exclaimed. “Once a thief -”

“He’d never,” Rosie shouted.

We searched frantically, but it soon became clear the necklace was gone.

“Maybe you left it upstairs,” I suggested.

Tears welled in Ava’s eyes. “I put the necklace in the box right before Mama carried it down here.”

Who could have taken the necklace? It wasn’t in the room. Someone must have taken it out, and only Rosie, Lucy, and I had left the room on errands.

And who needed money badly enough to steal the necklace?

Lucy had recently opened a yoga studio, so money was tight. Didn’t I know it, running my own business.

That brought me up short. I had just opened the Inn. If the police came, they’d suspect me, too. I felt my stomach clench. This was a disaster.

There was a knock at the door. My assistant, Marlee, peeked in. “Ten minutes to show time,” she said.

I peered over her shoulder. I saw Jesse Wood tugging at the collar of his jacket. Lucy’s husband stood nearby. Either of them could have had the pearls slipped to him by his bridesmaid accomplice.

As Mama, Rosie, and Ava argued, heads started to turn toward the bridal dressing room. I shut the door.

“Your no good boyfriend!” Mama fumed.

“Lucy said she had to get lipstick. We were all so busy dressing Ava. She could have taken the necklace from the room,” Rosie shouted.

Lucy’s eyes widened. “I’d never do that. Ava is my best friend!”

Mama put her hands on her hips. “Rosie, zebras don’t change their stripes. Did Jesse put you up to stealing the necklace? Well, I’m getting it back!” Mama started for the door.

“Ladies.” I blocked Mama’s way. I had to get things under control or this day would be a disaster – for the wedding party and for the Five Golden Rings Inn.

“Let’s start from the beginning. Where were the pearls?” I asked. Ava tearfully pointed at the box on the vanity.

I brushed the box with my hand, then looked closer at something on the lid. I exhaled with relief. “I know who took the necklace.”

Who took the pearls? How does Cady know?

SOLUTION:

Little Harper Mayhew. Cady noticed dog hair clinging to the box and remembered that Harper wanted to “make Keegan pretty.” Cady discovered that Harper had put the pearl necklace on Keegan. After touching up their makeup, the wedding went on. Disaster averted.

The Pain of Arriving at “It’s Just Not for Me”

For the second year in a row, I’m a mentor for Brenda Drake’s Pitch Wars contest. Last time, I gave a pretty comprehensive behind-the-scenes look at what it’s like trying to pan for gold in a huge writing contest.

This time around, I thought I’d talk a little more in depth on the very worst part of the contest: Seeing great work and then having to say no.

It’s particularly painful because most writers know what it feels like to put their best work out there and then to be told no—sometimes for a vague reason. Or for a reason that seems so minor that you just want to throw your hands up and say, “Why is that a no? That’s an easy fix.” Or you just get the dreaded “I just didn’t connect with this manuscript.”

I’ve been there on all of those and totally understand how frustrating rejections like that can be to receive. But thanks to this contest I also know how frustrating the flip side can be.

This year, there were more than 1,200 entries—double last year’s totals. Each entrant could pick up to four of the 75 mentors to submit to, using posted wish lists and preferences to figure out who might like what.

Though none of us are agents or acquisition editors, the whole aspect of the “hunt and peck” method of trying to match your manuscript with someone who might love it is very similar to trying to find the right match “for real.”

And sometimes that leads to the same annoying answers as above.

I narrowed my wish list this year and got 78 submissions, most of which were adult mysteries and thrillers, as requested.

Out of those 78, I was required to pick two writers to mentor—one will be my main mentee and the other will be an alternate.

Which means I have to say no to 76 manuscripts.

Not an easy thing—not only as a fellow writer but because approximately 90 percent of those manuscripts are something I could say yes to.

Going through the entries, I ended up with a huge “maybe” pile. Very few pitches ended up in the “no” pile right away and most of those were because the word count was hugely off (below 50,000 or above 120,000). Probably eight or so were flagged right off the query as having mentee potential. That number grew as I sifted through the maybes, looking at both the pitch (for a second time) and the submitted pages (one chapter).

So, what separated the maybes from the “check out more pages” from the two people I choose after eventually reading requested pages?

The same bit of “it” that seems to separate a “yes” from a “it’s just not right for me.”

As to what that X factor is, I still don’t know, and I’ve felt it 90-plus times recently.

Which makes me a little bit more understanding of those vague responses we all know and hate.

Because sometimes the reason is vague. Sometimes the idea and/or the writing is there, but it really isn’t just for you. Or it’s all there, and it’s for you but there’s something that puts you on the fence.

Obviously, because of the parameters of the contest, I was in a frame of mind where I really did just have to pick two writers. Agents and editors can sign however many writers they feel comfortable adding within a certain amount of time. They aren’t limited. But, that said, they still can’t take on every manuscript and writer that they like.

On Twitter, I likened this phenomenon to the classic children’s book Millions of Cats by Wanda Gag. In that story, a little old man goes out to find a feline companion to bring back to his wife. He stumbles upon a veritable kitty sea and can’t decide which one to bring back, so he brings back ALL of them—“hundreds and thousands and millions and billions and trillions” of cats.

As you can imagine, this ended badly: With all the cats (save one) eating each other when he asked them to decide among themselves who was the prettiest cat. The surviving cat didn’t even compete. That’s how it lived.

Just imagine if we asked writers to do that when gunning for a shot at a mentor/agent/editor.

So, that mentor/agent/editor has to use his or her best own judgment—even when something isn’t actually wrong.

How do you deal with the vague subjectivity of the literary world?

Dear Literary Agent

Dear Agent,

In my novel, TOASTING FEAR, Abby Jenkins, champagne supplier to North Carolina's Outer Banks, suspects a demon from her past is causing today's murders and must call upon an angel to convince the police detective that she's not behind the killings.

A mystery novel, TOASTING FEAR also has supernatural and romantic elements. Because there is a demon antagonist, I wrote horror scenes depicting my heroine’s victimization by the demon. When writing horror, harnessing personal fears facilitates authentic writing. I’ve rarely been in fear for my life, but I have felt other fears, which I utilized when writing those scenes.

One such situation is querying agents, inciting my feelings of fear, anxiety and dread. The last manuscript I completed took a little over a year of my life to write. My manuscript, a warm, funny, romantic mystery, enticed only four of the thirty agents I queried to ask for partials. This experience taught me that in horror, the heroine’s expectations and a quick reversal of those expectations must be felt by the reader.

Waiting for responses from agents made my bones feel hollow with trepidation similar to what I wanted my readers to feel as they watched Abby walk into trouble. When I previously queried, I set my PC to announce incoming email via sound. That sound was like hearing “for whom the bell tolled.” Every time I heard the bonging, like Pavlov’s dog, I raced to my computer, my heart pounding in suspense only to find myself disappointed by agents’ responses. In writing Abby’s horror scenes, I recalled my own feelings of powerlessness while reading those rejections.

When Abby is caught in an ocean whirlpool, like me, her mind races to determine how she can change the outcome. I evaluated my script trying to determine what to change to lure agents. For me self-publishing is a compromise that at this time I’m not willing to make. When Abby becomes trapped in a hole on the beach, sinking into a possible quicksand death, I called upon my own feelings of being trapped in a process that allows me to show only what is surface material rather than the depth on my novel. Do the first five pages catch their attention? If not, I’m doomed.

Like revising my novel, Abby uses a clam shell dug into the hole’s sides to heave herself out. But in the end, she must rely on an angel’s intervention to save her. I’ve tried praying that some agent will like my query. In the past, prayer hasn’t worked. So, I’m sucked into a hole of despair, much like my heroine, but unlike Abby, I won’t get a hand up from an angel.

I’ve spent two years of my life writing TOASTING FEAR without a clue as to whether or not it will sell. So dear agent, you see that I’m extremely qualified to write horror scenes. I hope you like my work, hope that we can become partners in my career and unlike my antagonist, I hope you aren’t really a demon.

Sincerely,

E. B. Davis

Dealing with Rejection

I'm not afraid of much, but I've feared rejection my whole life.

Logically, I realize that rejection is a part of being a writer; it's something we must all endure on the path to success. But knowing that doesn't lessen the sting any. No matter how many times people tell you that a rejection isn't personal, it's hard not to take it as such when it's happening to you.

It doesn't help that two of the definitions for "reject" in the dictionary are:

• to discard as useless or unsatisfactory
• to cast out or eject; vomit

Seriously. "Vomit." I realize that particular definition pertains more to a bodily function than a "no thank you", but it's still a harsh thing to think about.

Maybe it would be easier for me to deal with rejection if I were to view it as simply a difference of opinion: I like my work, but the agent (or reader) doesn't. I realize this is the concept that people try to share when they say "don't take it personally," but that phrase doesn't soften the blow quite like "difference of opinion" does.

I can easily accept opinions that don't mesh with my own; to each his/her own, and all that. So if I start to view a rejection as a mere difference of opinion, maybe that will help lessen the sting. Or will it still hurt because of the inherent need for validation that we all have? Is it the rejection itself that hurts, or is it the way in which the dismissal is delivered? Would my ego feel less bruised if someone explained why they didn't like my book, rather than sending me an impersonal "Thanks, but no thanks", or worse, no reply at all?

Maybe seeing the reasons my work has been refused would help me to understand said rejection better, and grow as a writer. For instance, if the issue is with syntax or grammar, that's information I could use to make the book better. If it's more that someone didn't like my protagonist, I'd be able to decide if I want to change that or not.

Granted, the bitter pill of "no thanks" might not taste that good - no matter what reason was given - but I still think I'd rather know the reasons behind a rejection than to receive some impersonal non-response.