When They Say No to Something You Love

There’s something different about getting rejected when the thing being rejected came from a creative place. I’m talking about something you spent countless hours, days, months—time in general—creating. Something you believed was great. Something that started as an idea in your head and somehow became real because you refused to leave it there.

Not something you were assigned to do. Not something you threw together because you had to. I’m talking about something you created from nothing. Something you kept thinking about, working on, changing, deleting, putting back, and trying your hardest to get right. Because maybe this is the one. Maybe this is the thing that helps you make a name for yourself. The thing that sticks. The thing people remember long after they forget your name—or better yet, the reason they remember it.

Then you finally decide it’s ready and you send it out and somebody says no.

I’ve learned that rejection is part of being a creative, especially when you’re trying to accomplish something that means alot to you. You can tell yourself beforehand that rejection is part of the process. You can remind yourself that everybody isn’t going to understand your work. You can even prepare yourself for the possibility that somebody might not like it. But at the end of the day, you’re an artist and it’s okay to be sensitive about yo’ $h*t.

Then that email comes…

“Thank you for your submission, but…”

And somehow all that preparation goes right out the window.

For a moment, you’re not thinking about how subjective the industry is. You’re thinking, Damn. I really thought this was good. Because that’s the crazy thing about chasing something creative. One hit can change your life forever. One screenplay. One book. One song. One painting. One idea. One person saying yes. And you thought maybe this was yours. Apparently… this was not it.

Then an even worse thought creeps in: What if it isn’t as good as I thought?

I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

Rejection doesn’t always make you want to work harder immediately. Sometimes it makes you question yourself. You start rereading things you were confident about a week ago. You wonder whether you misjudged your own ability. You start comparing yourself to people who seem to be getting opportunities while you’re collecting another polite email explaining that your work isn’t what somebody is looking for. And when you really care about what you’ve created, it can feel personal even when you know it isn’t supposed to be.

I’m learning to let myself feel that disappointment. I know I have the potential to do something great, but constantly climbing over obstacles to prove it gets exhausting.

I don’t have to pretend every rejection motivates me. Some of them piss me off, actually. Some hurt. Then there are the ones that make me question whether I’m wasting my time. What have I been doing all my life to make me think I belong here? Who told me I could compete with these people? Those are the dangerous thoughts, because sometimes they make you want to close the laptop forever and accept being the fly on the wall watching everybody else get applauded for the great work they’re doing instead of believing that one day people might be applauding yours.

But eventually, that sick feeling goes away and I start writing again.

It reminds me of one of my favorite ridiculous lines from Friday. Smokey is talking about Deebo and basically says he has “mind control” over him—when Deebo is around, he’s quiet, but when Deebo leaves, he’s talking again. That’s rejection. For a minute, rejection might be my Deebo. It shows up and tells me to shut up, and maybe for a little while I do. But eventually that rejection leaves and guess what? I’m talking again. I’m writing again. I’m creating again. That’s the mind control part I get to keep.

Rejection doesn’t suddenly stop bothering me because I convince myself the person who rejected me was wrong. And definitely not because I believe every story I write is perfect. I keep going because somebody else’s opinion of something I created doesn’t erase the reason, I created it or why I wanted to give it to the world in the first place.

That’s something I’m trying to hold onto and remind myself of daily—that sometimes all it takes is getting the right material into the right hands at the right time.

There is a dangerous place you can get to as a creative where acceptance becomes the only proof that what you’re doing matters. An agent has to sign you. A producer has to buy the script. A publisher has to offer you a deal. People have to buy the book. Somebody has to validate the work before you allow yourself to believe it has value.

I don’t want to create from that place, because I know I have value. I know I’ve created things with substance. Things that can entertain people, move people, make them laugh, make them uncomfortable, make them think, and maybe even inspire them.

BUT!… Of course I want the yes. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.

I want somebody to read something I wrote and see what I saw when I created it. I want the opportunity. I want the phone call. I want to experience something that once existed only in my head becoming something bigger than me. I want to be able to point at something one day and say, “I created that.” But wanting those things can’t mean that every “no” gets to convince me I shouldn’t be here.

Sometimes rejection means the work needs to get better, and that’s important too.

You have to be willing to consider that possibility. Loving something you created doesn’t automatically make it great. Sometimes criticism exposes something you couldn’t see because you were too close to the material. I’ve gone back to things I wrote years ago and wondered what the hell I was thinking. Then I’ve looked at the same work and thought, There’s actually something here. I just wasn’t the writer, yet who knew what to do with it.

That’s growth!

But sometimes the work is good, and the answer is still no. Wrong person. Wrong company. Wrong time. Wrong fit. Or maybe somebody just didn’t connect with it.

That’s the uncomfortable part about creating something. Eventually, you have to put it in front of people who weren’t there when you created it. They don’t know what it took to finish it. They don’t know which parts came from your life. They don’t know how many times you changed it. They don’t know how many nights you thought about it when you should’ve been sleeping. They don’t know how many times you almost gave up on it. They only know whether it connected with them, and sometimes it won’t.

So, I’m learning not to let a rejection letter become a death certificate for something I created.

I can read the email. I can be disappointed. Hell, I can be pissed off. I can question things. I can look at the work again and decide whether there’s something I need to learn from the rejection, and then I get to decide what happens next.

Maybe I rewrite it. Maybe I send it somewhere else. Maybe I put it away for a while. Maybe I start something completely new.

But I don’t want somebody else’s “no” to become the reason I stop creating. Because eventually, I think every creative person has to decide which matters more: the fact that somebody said no… or the fact that you still believe there’s a reason to keep going.

I’ve heard the no. I’ve felt the rejection. I’ve questioned myself. And I’ll probably do all three again.

But right now? I’m still talking.

And more importantly… I’m still creating.