I Can See Your House From Here - Archives
vol 2 number 12
The end of September came crashing down around me. Normally, I'm really fond of this time of year, as the wait for October and autumn is not far off from the feeling of Christmas Eve, or the week before your 16th birthday; the anticipation of the inevitable cool winds, the dying trees, the end of Daylight Savings. This is the time of year that all my favorite music sounds better, and all my favorite shirts don't make me sweat nearly to death.
This year, it's the season for rejection. Actually, not the season; I refuse to believe that it will continue past this last weekend. If for no other reason, I will be rejected no more because I have nothing submitted, pending approval.
Having your creative works rejected is, as I remember, exactly the same feeling as being turned down for a date, or perhaps more appropriately, being dumped. To start with, the overwhelming fear of rejection is the reason that a lot of artists never do anything with what they've created, just as that anxiety can stop a guy from approaching the cute girl across the party. Sure, you never get anywhere if you don't take a chance; the payoffs in life tend to be directly proportional to the risks involved. Of course, if you don't take the risk, you also avoid the possibility of being turned down...
On the other side of that wave -- the omega to the alpha, as it were -- is the cumulative effect that rejection can have on a person. The first attempt is the easiest, not just becuase you don't understand rejection except maybe from a vicarious position, but also because at worst, you have a 50/50 chance of success, at least if you judge by statistics. With each "No, thanks" or "We're not looking for your kind of art right now, but try back in a year" or "Stop following me or I'm calling the police," the little voice in your head that reminds you that you could fail again gets louder and easier to believe.
Of course, the similarities between the last day of love and the end of the submission process don't end there. There's the excitement that always leads up to the slap in the face. Remember junior high, when you didn't go out on dates, you just were boyfriend and girlfriend after a few notes were passed or a little gossip was passed back and forth? There was Laura, the cute redhead who hit puberty a little early, and you heard she liked you? It wasn't just your friends telling you, either -- it was her friends, too, making sure you knew that she had worn that sweater because she heard it was your favorite. As the weeks passed and the school dance approached, your heart beat faster and faster, adrenaline charged through you as you walked to her locker to see if she'd go with you -- and then your heart would stop in its tracks, a feeling of cold washing over you as she smiled sweetly but said that she already had a date, or that she would love to if she didn't have to walk her hamster that night? Even better is when you show up at the dance, and she's there, too -- on the arms of the biggest, least intelligent jerk in school.
Makes you a little sympathetic for Russell Crowe at the Oscars, doesn't it?
Rejection can take many forms, but it always uses the same methods of transportation. Normally, the anonymous pink slips with the rubber-stamped signature come in the mail, and they read about as warmly as a Dennis Hopper romantic lead. These days, of course, the letter has been largely replaced by the email, thus proving that there is cold beyond absolute zero. Fortunately, this hasn't caught on with interpersonal relationships; rare is the tale of the girl who was dumped via Hotmail. There are some common methods of delivery, though, like the telephone (or even better, the answering machine, insuring that the rejecter doesn't have to deal with the anger or pain of the rejected). There is the celebrated live confrontation, whether in the theater of the Shrine Auditorium or the lobby of Joe's Crab Shack. The best, though, is the silent finale, with no words, no recognition of existence -- nothing but silence and long periods of wondering. This is accompanied by the wonderful hesitation to shop around (be it the short script, the album, or the bachelorhood) due to the fact that silence might actually just be a sign of a vacation.
Sometimes, you get an explanation, a shot at finding meaning and improvement in the loss. In competition, you might receive notes, or a comparison of your work to the winner might reveal your shortcomings. In the case of a non-competitive submission -- be it an application for a job, a short story for an anthology, or a date with the gorgeous gal in accounting -- you could be lucky enough to get constructive criticism, a kindly presented list of things you might consider next time around. You could also find yourself on the receiving end of hysterical laughter, which isn't so bad from the faceless editor but takes some work to live down when it spreads past the accounting department.
Yes, I thought a lot about rejection this weekend. It doesn't show, I know, but I did. Between Thursday and Sunday, I had two short scripts lose in competitions across the Southeast (one of which presented the award to a really bad script, which makes me wonder what they thought of mine) and a short story turned away from publication. The rejections came in various forms, from as pleasant as possible to not far from a lead pipe to the kidneys. And it affected me.
That was possibly the strangest thing, at least to me. I write for myself; this is not a career I chose for myself (although I would never turn down the opportunity to follow this path for large sums of money). This is not something that I really enjoy. This is not something at which I think I'm particularly talented (though more than some, not nearly as good as people tell me). So why do I do it? At the risk of becoming the cliché that I hate, I write because I have to.
I have written four paragraphs before this one, and deleted each of them. I wanted to try to explain this, but I can't, and I think I've decided that the concept of creating because you have no choice is something that you either understand or you don't. I have tried to quit playing music -- sold all my instruments, avoided situations that would allow me to compose -- and failed, coming back to melody and counterpoint and polyrhythm time and again. I stopped writing for a long time (some might say I never came back), but the stories still formulate in my head and have to come out somehow. I write the music I write because it's what I want to hear. I write the stories I do because that's how they come out of me, and I feel dishonest trying to fit those entities into boxes that would allow them conventional success or recognition.
I hear someone out there crying: "Ya lazy bastard!" I suppose there's a little validity in that thought, except for one thing: this isn't a column to explain my distress at not being accepted by the public, or even by my peers. It is a coming to terms, of sorts, and hopefully, encouragement to other writers, musicians, unemployed people, and the brokenhearted. It is a message that says this: success is not necessarily accompanied by compromise. Success may not be what you imagine it to be -- in fact, you may have to change your perspective a bit. But remember this: a good friend of my has more piercings than a voodoo doll and refuses to cut his hair, and he stills makes more than most people I know. He did this by finding a workplace that would adjust to fit him, instead of adjusting to fit the workplace. I was single for a long time, but I managed to find a woman who accepts me for who and what I am; I am married, and still retain my black humor, my lack of social skills, and my Playboys.
Okay, I keep those well hidden. But I still have them...
Driving around in the beautiful autumn evening on Sunday night and into Monday morning, I had five new ideas for scripts, and zero motivation to write them down. Two songs, potential inclusions for my current project, passed through my mind, but I couldn't find the energy to make the necessary notes to remember them later. By morning, though, I realized that, while I might need a break from writing -- and this is all I plan on bothering with for the next seven days -- I can't stop writing anymore than I can stop breathing or wishing that George Lucas had stopped at three. Because while I write for myself, there's always the chance that I'll find an audience (William S. Burroughs, anyone?). While I step into the studio so I'll have something to hear in my car, there's the chance that someone else will hear it and be moved.
If you're unemployed and unwilling to conform to societal standards, there are still jobs out there for you, if you're willing to look. If you're stuck in the world of the Lonely Guy (or Gal), just remember Steve Martin's words of wisdom, from the masterful L. A. Story : "I could never be a woman, 'cause I'd just stay home and play with my breasts all day." Wait, sorry; wrong quote. "There is someone for everyone, even if you need a pickaxe, a compass, and night goggles to find them."
I'm not sure what that means, but I'll bet it was rejected at least once, too.