The Printer Controversy
How rejections are no longer badges of honor to me
In the writer world, many of us have heard of Stephen King’s early habit of stabbing his rejections to his wall. When the nail could no longer sustain the load, he replaced it with a spike.
Why not do that myself?1
So I started printing these gems. I snipped off the excess white space and punctured polite refusals and haughty rebuffs to a bulletin board in my office. (See the strategically placed Dundie in the above photo?)
This summer my awesome teenager and I installed a new mesh router set-up to get better Wi-Fi to The Foxhole.2 After a few “David and Moira enchilada”3 moments of frustration, we got it set up and all 72 devices were connected.
Except for one stubborn beast, the ancient HP printer that hid in a repurposed sewing table in my room. After a too-long troubleshooting session, I realized the printer was no longer supported.
In the meantime, I had a few rejections that were sitting like evil gremlins in my inbox, constant reminders that my words of connection failed to lasso readers and editors.
Like most present era consumers, we weren’t in a rush to buy a new printer, so I made those rejections magically disappear into a folder and indulged in the bliss of procrastination and sporadic imposter syndrome that really fill a writer’s life.
A few delightful weeks later, that wonderful teenager sold a pair of Nikes on eBay and needed to print out a packing slip.
Ugh.
So like the best mother-and-son team ever, we shopped together at Staples, oohed and aahed at fancy printers, and pressed buttons and swung open scanner lids and trap doors that held fake ink cartridges. It was fun; these machines were like big fidgets for grown-ups. (Best of all, on the Fourth of July, the five apathetic employees didn’t bother us.)
After checking out the clearance section, I drove to Walmart like a reasonable person, and we picked up a $40 HP printer.4
After handling the eBay fiasco so my son could send shoes across the country after receiving a whopping $3 profit, I fell onto my bed and thought about my rejections in queue. Five seconds later, I picked up my phone and immediately batch-deleted them with giddy laughter.
As a woman of protocols but also impulsive self-sabotage, I enjoyed this relief of indifference, stagnate in my core and then swelling through my limbs.
Finally, this odd experience drenched my mind with one question.
What was I trying to prove?
Sure, my artwork of “no thank yous” was an affirmation of my bravery. I was willing to submit my darkest secrets and most vulnerable prose for a chance to enchant a publication to publish my work and display it on their bare-boned website. Maybe get a few reads. I’ve had people reach out to me after reading a piece which means so much, but in the journey of writing, editing, researching pubs (THE WORST!), submitting, receiving rejections, doing some more editing, and, a few times here and there, getting an acceptance… through all of that, how many are really reading?
Some of these journals are top-notch, but many are new or too abstract.5
What is my scope? Who is my audience?
I realized that I was trying to fit a literary mold that was not me. My writing will never fit in uppity journals nor hip pubs filled with a Gen Z masthead. I’m thankful for those journals that have published my work, creating the slim kismet of the perfect pub, piece, and submission window.
If I’m going to submit, I want to push boundaries in the mainstream. I want people to say, “I can’t believe she wrote that… with her real name attached.” That means pitching to fewer but bigger pubs that won’t result in a precarious need for a printer.
I want to write for the masses. That may not seem cool, but I stopped caring a long time ago. I have some way to go in that fleeting brand of bravery, especially as I weigh where I belong on social media and define a clearer focus for the intent of my writing and to whom.
Also I can’t forget about my big project: I need to work on my hybrid memoir.
Right now, I plan on removing my rejections from the board, and then let it sit bare. I have other boards that hold stickers and cards of encouragement and inspiration. This newly empty board will have another purpose, maybe where I organize the flow of my memoir. Maybe it will list all the people who influence me in my writing life.
Or maybe a pretty card with the exact type of ink cartridges I need for the new printer.
Reader, as an Enneagram type 8, this now seems so stupid and “follow-y” to me. I rarely go with the crowd. I am the crowd… and the bouncer, bartender, dancers, owner, custodian. I’m still trying to pull the MC off the stage. (“This person is a horrible host. He’s not even that funny. Did he dress himself?!”)
This is my she-shed office in the backyard. I want to keep this property forever because I love The Foxhole, my hideaway, productive paradise, and occasional naughty haven.
For the oblivious folk: Schitt’s Creek, season 2, episode 2. “Fold the cheese!”
Hey, they last long. My money says it’s going to print until we’re empty nesters. A decade.
To be honest, these smaller journals fold and close on a painfully regular basis with a lack of support, overwhelmed staff, and low readership unfortunately. Then there are the ones that behave badly (take on too many subs, very long response times, and submission guidelines that make the check-out procedure at a posh Airbnb seem like a breeze).