Form Rejections-- bad form?

About form rejections-- you know, when I started acquiring, I said I was going to send a personalized letter with every rejection, giving suggestions for improvement. The publisher said, "We'll see how long that lasts." She said the good thing about form rejections is that they don't give the submitter much to argue about.

But it's so impersonal, sez I.

Exactly, sez she.

Anyway, I rather quickly understood her reasoning, because about a third of my carefully worded rejections were answered with arguments, and those were usually the rejections that were for cause-- I mean, the submissions weren't good enough, or were actually bad.

Let's say I rejected a story because, as I pointed out in the letter, the characters weren't sympathetic. (I'd probably even-- I tell you, I was a sap-- explain why, and how they could be made more so.) Well, in return mail would come a disquisition about how the characters were (natch) based on real people in her family, and they were lovely people, and maybe I was just too jaded to appreciate real people anymore.

Or maybe I sent a rejection saying that the story is interesting (interesting, by the way, is what we say when we can't honestly say "good"), but the mechanical problems make this hard to read, such as (example). This sort of letter always engendered a reply about how the submitter had majored in English or always got As on papers or worked in (insert field requiring -- presumably-- some writing skill), and that I was frankly wrong about the issue I identified (which was usually something really not debatable, like how dialogue is punctuated). And besides, if the story is interesting, what's your problem, editor? Isn't your job editing the prose? Are you saying the grammar is more important than the story? Huh?

Significantly, the debaters were usually the worst writers.

The better writers, the ones whose submissions were okay but no more than that, might respond, but the responses were usually more polite, maybe just a thank-you or an explanation of why they'd done this thing I'd identified. You don't actually need to send a thank-you, and I am not all that interested in your explanations, but I don't object to this sort of polite response at all. It certainly doesn't hurt to have your name associated in my mind with courtesy.

But even the courteous respondents would often ask if they could resubmit after fixing whatever problem I identified, and I would generally say yes because I felt sorry for them, wanted to validate their willingness to improve, whatever. Truth is, the problem I identified might be (probably was) just one of several problems, and fixing it wouldn't make the story something I'd acquire. So I'd have to reject the author a second time.

Anyway, after getting debating responses to what I meant as a politely worded "go away" rejection, I came to see the wisdom of form letters. Yes, they really do give less leeway for argument, though I notice Theresa gets argument replies to the form letters!

I should stop and say there are three basic reasons for a form rejection:
1) It actually doesn't fit our line, and I'm not making any judgment about its merits otherwise.
2) The submission isn't bad, but the ways it isn't good can't actually be elucidated in a letter... maybe there are too many problems to list, or maybe it's just really boring, or maybe it's just nothing special.
3) The submission is really bad, and if I'd tell you that, it would hurt, and why would I want to hurt you?

Whenever I got a form rejection (and I got them throughout my writing career, even for stuff I knew was good and ended up selling elsewhere), I just assumed, maybe to save my ego, that the reason was #1. And I do think that's probably the most common reason for form rejections, especially those that come from the first reader, who in bigger houses is often an editorial assistant, and her job is to weed out submissions so that only appropriate ones go to the editors.

If you're getting a lot of form rejections, and (this is important) you have some independent evidence that your writing is pretty good (like contest wins, agent interest, previous publication), consider that you might be submitting to the wrong editor/line/publisher/agent. Read the guidelines carefully, but (cough) be aware that they might not have been updated recently. More important, read the line you're thinking of submitting to, and see if your book is in the same region.

Of course, you can just go ahead and submit to everyone, except it's a waste of paper (not an issue with e-subs), and maybe a waste of time. But it's not that big a sin, and I seriously doubt anyone's got a file of "form rejection types" with your name on it and a comment like "I wish she'd go away." The problem is, once you submit a manuscript, it's kind of verboten to resubmit it to another editor in the same line, or a different agent in the agency. (If you realize, "Oh, wait, this is really a science fiction story, and I should have submitted it to that other line in the same publisher," that's probably okay.) Best to choose the right editor or agent first time. So if you're getting a lot of form rejections, try getting more selective about your targets, so that you don't limit your potential market for this manuscript.

In any case, a form rejection usually does mean that there is no future for this submission with this editor or line. No use arguing about it.

I must put in here that I do send personalized rejections in other cases, like when I think the writer has a good voice or good story-- that is, when I want to give a bit of encouragement or praise. And often there's some aspect that doesn't have to do with the writer's talent and I want to point that out, like "this is good, but too similar to a story we have coming out next month," or "I like this, but the (trend of the month) isn't selling anymore," or "I wish I could buy this, but we're no longer taking (some subject)."

But if I do reject the story, it's probably because I don't see it working for us no matter what. So if I don't specifically ask for resubmission, I don't particularly want to see this again. (Other manuscripts, of course, are fine, especially if I've praised something. When you submit something new, couldn't hurt to remind me, "When I submitted XYZ, you mentioned that you especially liked my hero.") But if I've rejected the story, I don't want to have to reject it again, so don't submit that story again, okay?

Now if the writer completely revamps the story, that's different. I won't mind looking at another version if you really did do a lot of re-invention, or you've taken a crash course in POV or grammar and can legitimately attest that you're writing at a new level and know what you were doing wrong before and how to fix it. (I'd suggest actually giving it a new title if you want to submit anew, not just because publishing houses keep track of submissions that way, but also because it signals that this really is a whole new book worthy of new consideration.) Should you remind me that I've already rejected it? Yes, otherwise I'll puzzle over why this storyline sounds familiar and waste time on Amazon and IMDB trying to track down the source. But do consider stating this in a positive way, like "You passed on an earlier version of this story. I read your suggestions and have done (list a few big changes)." I recently had a writer who vowed that I was actually the catalyst for her going back to school and taking a grammar course, and now she never wrote with out the Little, Brown Handbook at her side to check for punctuation rules. Well, heck, you know, if I changed your life for the better, I want to know. :)

Also, if I think the story has only a couple fixable problems, I send a "revise and resubmit" letter. Oh, let me say this-- sometimes, I know, all you see is the "Sorry, but this isn't there yet," and assume this is another rejection. READ THE WHOLE LETTER!!! Generally the revise and resubmit part is in the last paragraph, after we identify all that is wrong (but fixable). Look for a line like, "If you want to work on those aspects, I'd be glad to take another look." That is NOT a rejection. It just starts like one. I wonder if it would be useful to use a different color font for "resubmit" letters, as so many writers mistake them for rejections.

Anyway, I've come to appreciate form letter rejections, as an editor and as a writer. They're so... clean. And that makes the differential with a personalized letter that much more striking.
Alicia

Rejection Backlash

Cathy in the comments mentioned rejection backlash, and this made me think of a post over on Angela James's blog a week or so ago. Angela was asking about the too-fast rejection, and how fast is too fast? It always shocks me when writers complain that we rejected them too fast. I've seen several backlash emails from authors who assumed the fast response meant we hadn't read the proposal. But all it really means is that you happened to submit right around the time when we were knuckling down on the slush pile. We sail in like pirates with red pens clenched in our teeth, looting and pillaging until the slush pile is a smoking remnant of its former self. Swash, swash. Buckle, buckle.

So if you get a fast response, thank your stars that you submitted on pirate day, and try to avoid writing back some snarky comment along the lines of, "Thanks a lot for the abundant time you spent reading this. Next time, try opening the attachments before rejecting them." (Yes, people really write things like that.) You know, sometimes people have to wait months and months for answers. And sometimes you get lucky, get a fast response, and can move on to the next submission target a little more quickly.

Another really poor choice for the rejected author is to email the boss with a complaint. These complaints usually land on my desk, and go something like,

I recently submitted a story to Ellie Editor after meeting her at a conference. I'm a serious writer and go to conferences and stuff. All my friends say it's good. So why did I get rejected? I think maybe Ellie didn't notice the part where my hero says she deserves a spanking and she says I dare you and he tries and then it gets really good. I know you publish stories like this. Except mine is better because the heroine has red hair. Ellie Editor didn't even say why she rejected it, and my mom said that I should write and ask for more information because we all think Ellie might have sent me the wrong letter by mistake. So could you check with Ellie. And also, how much do you pay?

Well, that's actually a fairly nice interpretation of a common "write the boss" letter. We'll call that one Exhibit A, a Rejection Backlash From a Clueless Newbie. More commonly we see something else, something that an agent once confessed she had dubbed Bitch Mail. I give you Exhibit B,

Ellie Editor had my manuscript for four months and rejected it, and I know it was a form rejection because it didn't even have my name on it. What the fuck? I waited four months for this? You need to know your employees are treating people like this. Plus, she was stupid for rejecting it. Either that, or she got lazy and didn't read it. She needs to get fired before she drags down your whole company. Also, I'm attaching my manuscript so you can see what I'm talking about. Please assign it to another editor who isn't stupid or lazy.


Now, what do you imagine that I do with letters like these? Our editorial and production team is small and intimate. My authors are topnotch people, and frankly, I think they get along better than just about any group of authors you could find. Do you think I want to drop a poisoned apple in that barrel? Do you think I want to expose my company's most precious asset -- its authors -- to this kind of attitude?

Of course not.

I don't reply in kind, because there's no point in that, but I do send a politely worded email explaining that my editors are empowered to exercise their judgment, and thank you for submitting, and so on.

Now that I've given you a glimpse into the horror show that sometimes unfolds, let me share a story about the right way to question a rejection. I was introduced to an author at a conference, and she pitched a book to me. I liked the sound of it, and I knew the author's name because she's been knocking on our door for a while. After I had already invited her to submit her new project, we started talking about her other interactions with our authors and staff, and she mentioned a manuscript that had been rejected by another editor at our house. She didn't complain about the rejection, but it came up in the course of conversation, very casually and without anything resembling a nasty edge. She told me a little about that rejected story -- and it's a type of story that I know our publisher adores. So I prodded a bit to see if I could find out what happened there. I mean, this is someone who we know can write, with a story type we are actively looking for.

So she sent me the rejected story with a very polite cover letter thanking me for the second look. She never once complained about the editor who had rejected it. She seemed to understand she was getting a second bite out of the apple, and she treated this as a good thing. Another author might have thought of it as payback to the rejecting editor, an "Aha! I'll show her!" moment, but this very smart young lady knew better than to go down that path.

Consequently, I've spent a fair amount of time reading and thinking about this book, and talking to the other editor about it. We've reached a consensus opinion, and this polite and professional young author is about to get detailed feedback from not just one editor, but two.

The moral of the story? Be nice, and you get double what you need. Send me Bitch Mail, and you get a pirate's curse.

Theresa

ps. I'm on facebook now. Friend me if you wish.

I Need Your Opinions on This

There's a poll up in the sidebar about holiday rejections, and I really would like to know what you all think of this. We're in desk-clearing mode, but something in me cringes at the thought of sending out rejections during Christmas week. Is it better to do it then and get it over with, or wait until January and contribute to the plague of January winter blues?

(If you're on a feed reader, you have to click over to the actual blog to vote.)

Theresa

When We "Hate" the Manuscript: An Editor's Response

Yesterday -- or rather, late last night, because that was the soonest I could get to the blog -- we talked about what to do when one of your critiquing partners delivers chapters that are tolerably well-written but leave you cold.

Today, I thought I'd talk a little about this issue from the acquisitions perspective. Maybe we should entitle this post:

To Form Reject, or Not to Form Reject. That Is the Question.

(So tempted to riff on "whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrow of outrageous fortune," which seems like a line custom-designed to describe this particular issue.)

Let me start by saying I hate form rejections. No. Maybe I should start by saying I love form rejections. Each statement is equally true, after all, depending on the circumstances.

I love form rejections because they create a defensive shield between me and the disappointed writer. Not all writers tolerate disappointment well. Our side of the profession is riddled with stories about writers who argue with editors over every detail of every letter. If we explain that the protagonist's motivation in chapter seven doesn't work, we know we open ourselves up to a letter explaining precisely why we weren't paying attention to the set-up in chapter six. (That kind of argument won't win you a contract, in case you were wondering.)

Or, we get a letter kindly offering to revise the motivation in chapter 7 and resubmit, even though we never invited revisions. (If we want revisions, we'll ask for them. Never doubt that.)

Or, after reading and rejecting a partial, we sometimes get the full anyway, with an explanation of why we were wrong not to request it. (Gee, thanks.)

This reminds me of a conference legend involving an elevator, a laptop, and a romance editor who can never blend into the crowd at romance conventions because he is a he. Poor guy. He's tall, too. Sticks out like a linebacker at a doll party. Every time I hear a story about this guy at a conference, I wonder if the story is true or if it's always him in these stories because he's such an obvious target.

So, as the legend goes, our heroic editor boarded a crowded elevator at a major conference last year. One of the passengers recognized him and pounced.

"You requested my manuscript and you've had it for nine thousand million kajillion months," said the writer. "Aren't you ever going to read it?"

"I'm a little behind on my reading," the editor admits. At this point, the elevator probably feels a bit like a cage, but this guy is also legendary for being a good sport, so he might not mind being cornered.

"I've got it on my laptop." The writer whips out said laptop and fires it up to the manuscript.

There are two versions of this legend, one which has the editor welcoming the chance to read the manuscript right there, and one which has him blinking in surprise before formulating the answer least likely to get him shoved down the elevator shaft. In either case, the editor is said to have graciously taken the laptop and begun reading the manuscript on the screen.

"Well," he says after reading a bit. "This probably won't work for us. You're opening with a lot of backstory, and it's slowing down the pace."

He starts to return the laptop, but the writer pushes it back on him.

"Keep reading!" she insists. "It gets better in chapter four!"

Ba-dum-bump-tsh!

Form rejections shield us from this sort of thing. We don't know you. You could be the nicest person in the world, or you could be elevator-laptop girl. (Helpful career tip: Don't be elevator-laptop girl.)


The Downside of Form Rejections

Occasionally, there comes a writer who we like very much but whose work we cannot buy. Case in point -- this story is true, and I know it's true because it happened to me.

Last year at a major conference, I went to the bar to meet up with some friends and couldn't find them. Somehow I ended up at a table with three writers, all of whom were strangers. They were delightful people. We talked about the city and the conference schedule and what we like to read. We commiserated over the impossibility of getting table service in that bar. We played the who-do-you-know game and I ended up giving all three of these fine people my card. One of them assured me she would submit something, and that was the extent of our business discussion.

I bumped into these women at various times over the course of the conference and they were always delightful. After the conference, as promised, the one woman submitted work to me. I was happy to see it from her.

I couldn't make her an offer on it, but I also couldn't have lived with myself if I'd used a form rejection. She was so nice, and I wanted to help her. So I sent her a long and detailed revision letter and made sure she understood that my office door remained open to her. Since that time, we've corresponded a bit and I'm doing what I can to help her shape up her prose. I'm always pleased to see something in my inbox from her. She's consistently pleasant and I know how hard she's working to learn her craft.

The Moral of The Story

What does this have to do with critiquing a story that's basically well-written but doesn't appeal? Everything. When I'm confronted with a story like that, my first decision has to be whether to send a form rejection or something more personal. Three factors come into play here, and none of them have to do with whether I "hate" the manuscript. (I hardly ever really hate a manuscript. I either love them, or I think they don't work. Occasionally, they make me spray tea through my nose, but laughably bad manuscripts are more rare than you might think.)

The three factors are time, how much repair work needs to be done, and whether I feel the need to shield myself. As to the first two factors -- I never have any time, and most of the repair work at this pre-contract stage is done by the writer, not the editor.

Which leave the third factor, whether I feel the need to shield myself. Most of the time it's a guessing game because I don't know three-quarters of the people who submit to me. And momma always warned me, don't open the door to strangers, and I always do what momma says. So that means the default preference is for a politely worded and kindly intended form rejection, even if the writing is mostly good.

Theresa