On Rejection

By Tom Clagett

When I was asked to write an article for The Journal of the Caucus for Television Producers, Writers & Directors, I was stumped. Not being a television producer, director, or writer, I wondered what I could contribute to this caucus; what might be of value for contemplation, consideration, or even whimsy. After reading an issue, I was even more perplexed. Certainly my background as an assistant film editor seemed out of place among a membership whose names and accomplishments are quite familiar and well-known. However, many in the Caucus would no doubt agree with film director William Friedkin whom I once heard say, “The editing room is where you see all your mistakes.”

But as I studied the Journal again, it occurred to me that as producers, directors, and writers, you have had your ideas, your vision, your scripts rejected at some time or another. That rejection can be painful, sometimes long in healing. But was it simply the rejection or the reason for the rejection that hurt, infuriated, galled?

Not long ago, I embarked on a quest to find a publisher for two fact-based novels I had written, one a frontier story about Mexican bandits set during the California gold rush days, the other the tale of a Cherokee Indian. Being a published author of a work of non-fiction on the films of William Friedkin, I thought I might have some cache, some standing, a toe in the door of the publishing world. Here follows actual stated rejections of my work from commercial publishing houses, university presses, and agents. I think some comfort and solace, a knowing chuckle, a bedeviled memory, or even surprise might be aroused by these words:

  “You don’t have a Spanish surname and therefore, no standing.”

  “You don’t teach on a university level and that’s what we really want.”

  “As you are not Native American, we cannot really consider this.”

  “It turns out that I [the reader] have written an historical novel of my own with the same characters.”

  “The fiction market is currently restricted.”

  “We have discontinued the regular publication of fiction.”

“It’s a good piece of writing, but needs to be either more literary or more commercial.”

  “We have publishing commitments for the next two years and are not accepting new submissions.” (It should be noted that in the past two years, this publisher’s website and write-ups in The Literary Marketplace and The Writer’s Market clearly state they are still accepting new submissions.)

  The next two examples I found compelling in their unabashed crassness:

  “Your book would probably be right for us. But, to be frank, for a mid-sized publisher like us, the expense to launch a first work of fiction is daunting. It has nothing much to do with the story or the quality of writing. The problem is the risk a publisher takes: thousands and thousands of dollars up front with no guarantee of getting the investment returned... If we had the funding we might consider a full-scale effort for this work. In a unique situation like this one, I could suggest a possible co-publishing arrangement if you know of anyone who would be interested in investing in such a project. I just never like to say ‘no’ if there is a way to make a book happen.”

  “Our editorial committee has chosen your book as a possible addition to our list. After over twenty-five years of publishing, we’ve discovered that it works best for us to share expenses the first time out for certain titles we feel need extra help achieving success in the marketplace and then to offer standard royalty contracts after we’ve developed a readership. Please call us for further details.” (The italics are theirs.)

  This last entry came to me handwritten at the bottom of my returned query letter. There was no date, no signature, no initials, nothing, except these three little words: “We cannot use.”

I have not given up. Despaired, growled, vented to my wife and friends, yes. Gone to bookstores, looked at the novels on the “New Writer” shelves and wondered, “How did they do it? Who did they know?” But I won’t give up.

Someday someone will say, “We can use it.”

Tom Clagett has worked on The Two Jakes, Last Rites, Miracle in the Wilderness, Blind Faith, Jackie Collins’ Lucky Chances, and The Room Upstairs, and is the author of William Friedkin: Films of Aberration, Obsession, and Reality.