#44 Rejected!
Sometimes, when I become nervous about something, I’ve noticed that I have a strange subconscious tendency to begin whistling or suddenly humming a random song. I’m not sure why my subconscious mind will revert to such a silly method of ‘changing the subject’ in my own head in order to protect itself (myself?), but it does, and the older I get, the more I notice this quirk, and the more I resent it for being so idiotic. But I also realize, as I grow older, that actually dealing with the events in your own life that make you feel uncomfortable is one of the hardest things to do, hence the incredibly powerful and complex, but obviously pointless process psychologists call denial.
I’ve never been one to throw myself into the futile fog that is denial. Instead, I like to beat myself up over my failures, and to overly abase myself in the face of rejection. But I’m not trying to boast or brag, because it’s not like denial is an easier choice than facing rejection—they’re both pretty hard on the psyche. No one likes to fail, and no one wants to admit to being a failure. So I’ll go on record saying that I’ve been rejected enough times to realize that rejection does not always breed failure. Rejection often breeds resentment, and self-loathing, which can lead one down the path of failure, but facing rejection can actually help you discover something glorious about yourself. If you analyze your reactions to a rejection, then you can refine your dreams and goals.
A few months ago, I completed writing and editing my first novel ever. I wrote it in the course of three days, for a contest, appropriately called “The International Three-Day Novel Contest.” I sincerely suggest that anyone who reads this and has always wanted to write his or her own novel enter this contest next year (it’s always a three day contest that takes place over labor-day weekend), because it is an incredible marathon. What surprised me the most about the contest, however, was that in the end, it was the process of writing the novel, and not the novel itself that gave me one of the highest highs that I’ve ever felt in my life. I owe so much to this contest, because had I never competed, I would never have realized just how passionate and dedicated I am to the art of writing.
I just found out this morning that I lost the contest. I was one of 385 final entrants to be reviewed, and I did not win. I also did not get second place. And they released the other top ten finalists, rounding out a top twelve, and my name was nowhere on that list either. Here’s a quick breakdown on how I took the bad news: At first, I thought to myself, “By God, Mike, the contest must be rigged, you deserved to win, but the whole thing was fixed, you’re still the greatest novelist to never be published, so worry not!” But that was way too thin of a lie for me to believe, so my own mind next countered with the thought, “Oh no, I bet they lost my novel in the mail, and never even read it! Man, I have the worst luck ever!” And then I started to spontaneously whistle, and that’s when I blushed, and I realized that I was nervous and upset because I had just lost a contest I very much wanted to win, and my bruised ego was about to try and save itself by ‘singing a song.’
But I did something next that I’ve been training myself to do over the years; I actually continued to think about the rejection and to analyze why I felt rejected. After a little more contemplation on the subject, I came to a conclusion that is obvious, yet hard for my subjective mind to relish: the truth of the matter is that I wrote a novel, and regardless of how personally attached I am to my novel, in the eyes of a well trained panel of judges, my novel was not as good as many of the other entries – and that’s okay. And not only is this truism okay, it’s actually a good lesson for me, a lesson that never gets old.
If good things come too easily for people in their life, then people tend to take these things for granted. For instance, talking off of the top of my head comes extremely naturally to me, it’s so easy, in fact, that I have quite the reputation for being a motor mouth and for saying a lot of stupid things, out loud, a lot of the time. But it still comes easy, and I know that I take it for granted that I can give speeches on the spot, that I can tell a story in a crowded room and not get overly nervous, and that I’ll never experience awkward silence on a first date. Of course, one of the many downsides to this trait is by now, I should be able to shove both of my feet into my mouth at the same time, since I’ve had so much practice at eating my own words and tasting my own feet. (Alas, I cannot shove even one of my feet into my own mouth, because I’m just not flexible enough to do so, literally, and figuratively speaking.)
So by losing this contest, writing is officially in a different class than talking, for me. I had thought that both came too easily, but alas, I was wrong! Writing requires more effort than speaking; it takes practice, patience, cultivation, and dedication – four things I suck at, and four things I resent. And so I have suddenly realized that in order to successfully achieve my dream, and make a living by writing, I’m going to have to take a different attitude and approach to this career than I previously thought I would have to. Basically, writing well is equivalent to weight training; you know that results lie ahead in some distant future, but in order to get there, you’re going to have to experience some stinging burns, and the boredom of repetition—because “practice makes perfect.”
Practice, you want practice? C’mon, I mean, how many times have I struck the keys on my keyboard, trying to write ‘the truth as I see it?’ And how many times did Ernest Hemingway or William Faulkner hit those same damn keys on their typewriters? Do I have to pound out another seven million pages in order to become as talented as they were? How many times has Tiger Woods hit a golf ball with a nine iron? How many times has Michael Jordan dribbled a ball between his legs, bent his knees, and then pushed his body into the air in order to perfect his jump shot? Just because our heroes can flawlessly perform acts, on a regular basis, that we only wish we could do once, doesn’t mean that they didn’t put in lots of boring, hard work, fearlessly face rejection, and then react to the rejection by pushing themselves harder.
No one ever told me that life was going to be easy, but no one also ever told me that I would wake up on certain mornings suffering from a horrendously melodramatic feeling of discontent and alienation. I’m not sure if I wish someone had told me there’d be days like that, but I do know that I am upset that I learned a lot of what to falsely expect out of life by watching too many sit-coms on television as a child. I learned to falsely desire what Hollywood writers thought I should desire, and a great, vicious cycle was born.
As a writer, it is one of my goals to break this cycle, and to “tell it like it is.” I wish to write the truth, as I see it, and say no more, and no less. This means that I need to be honest about things; honest about feeling hatred towards a president I do not trust. Honest about checking my ears for wax each morning and feeling a giddy rush when I manage to fish out a truly funky yellow prize from own ear. Honest about my impulsive addiction to cigarettes, my affinity for gambling, and my incessant competitiveness.
Even though I can psychoanalyze myself very well, I still find that the greatest form of therapy, for me, is when I read a book that features a character (fact or fiction, it makes no difference) that I identify with. When your heart is broken, you rent movies where characters have their hearts broken. Why? I do this because I find comfort in identifying with someone else, so that I feel a little less lonely in a world that, to be honest, can make me feel incredibly alone sometimes.
Oh sweet rejection, how thou makes me want to pity myself! Rejection creates only two paths of action for me. The first path, the path I’ve often taken in the past, is to throw myself, head first, into a binge of drinking and smoking and ranting and raving about the rejection itself. But today, I find that this familiar path has become worn out for me.
So I’m older now, and I appreciate different things, and one thing that I appreciate is the feeling of success that follows years of hard work and practice. And this is the second path that I can take. The best example that comes to mind is the time that I learned how to play ping-pong from my friend in High School. I had to play him over one thousand times, literally, before I finally beat him. But when I did, I felt an indescribable elation.
Recently, a very helpful woman gave me some much-needed advice. This woman just so happened to be dining at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, and after the meal, we were chit chatting, and being the verbose and careless human that I am, I trusted her, and so I began to tell her personal things about my life. I told her that I was worried about my life because I worry too much. And I didn’t know how to stop worrying, and yet I didn’t know what I was worried about. After we talked for about an hour, she stopped me and said; “You don’t worry too much, Mike, you anticipate too much. You need to stop anticipating future happiness at the expense of the present moment.”
And this, of course, reminded me of Ram Daas’ book, “Be here now.” BE HERE NOW. BE HERE NOW…it sounds so damn easy, but really, it’s not. It takes practice, just like writing, or playing basketball, or sewing, or painting, or swimming, or building model cars, or learning how to juggle – it’s all a giant game of you versus yourself and learning how to gain control of your own ambitions and drive. Be here now. Every time I say that aloud, or even write it, my lips began to form a tight oval and a faint whistling comes out of my mouth – because it makes me nervous.
There’s a lot of power in such a simple message. So here I am, being here, right now. And this is my therapy – writing. There are four basic things that I truly love to do in this world – I love to think, I love to learn, I love to travel, and I love to love. Writing is the only occupation that can combine these passions of mine, and subsequently fulfill me.
So I entered a contest, I wrote a novel, I lost the contest, and now I’m going to try to win my own contest, which is where I actually get up off of my lazy butt and start writing my canon of comedic dystopia novels. (Irony compels me to write that in order to write these dystopia books I actually have to sit down, and get ON my lazy butt—sigh.) At any rate, this is my dharma, and I must follow it if I want to be happy, because right now, literally, in the very moment that I strike these keys, I realize that I am happy, and that I love this page, these words, these thoughts, and these honest feelings. But most of all, I love the fact that I can express myself through words and convey the feelings I harbor in my head to you, the reader. I hope this provides some form of therapy for you as well. And for the record, I’m no longer whistling, and I’m coming after you, Faulkner. Because I’m not just a career driven writer, I’m an overly competitive bastard to boot. So eat your heart out, Hemingway! And Borger, thanks for pushing me away from sarcasm.
