I think secretly, we all believe we’re the exception to the rejection rule. Most everybody gets rejected, which means approximately 99.9% of writers have the first thing they submit rejected.

But that 0.1% (or 0.0001%) give a lot more of us hope—or maybe they give us all enough hope to at least try. Unless you’re one of the brave writers who bites the “might as well get that first R over with” bullet, there’s probably some little shred of hope.

Until cold, hard reality hits reply.

Most of the time, our first steps down the professional publishing path just aren’t ready. And most of the time, on the off chance they are, it’s still kind of a cosmic wonder that we connect with an agent or editor in the first place. Not only does our writing have to be stellar-awesome-with-sprinkles, but it has to be something that speaks to the agent/editor. (How often do you put down a book because you’re just not that into it?) And then you have to go the extra mile—when was the last time you loved a book so much you instantly thought of 4-5 reader friends who would also love it?

I was extremely fortunate with my first rejection. I knew that this publishing company used evaluators for each submitted manuscript, and these evaluators are required to fill out a feedback form. So, like a very brave soul, I asked the editor for those feedback forms.

One of my friends once told me the feedback forms she received usually comprised one completely vague and basically useless form, one unhelpful and perhaps even harsh form, and one good/helpful form. That was exactly my experience, too. However, I was also fortunate that even the vague and the harsh feedback forms agreed there were certain changes needed to be made to my perfect little baby.

Big, sweeping changes.

Rethinking the plot changes.

It might be easier to move on to the next project changes.

However, the morning I received my rejection (before the email came in), I was thinking about this book and these characters, and I really felt compelled to share these people and this story with readers. They were just too real to me to give up, to let them live on only in my imagination.

So I gave myself a break. Okay, first I called Sarah and my mother and cornered my husband and anyone else who’d listen to complain about the stupid things they didn’t like, gush about the things they did like, lament the rejection, etc. After about a week of that, the horse was dead. DEAD. And I stopped beating it.

I took a little time off (it was Christmas and I was traveling with two small children to visit my family), and really weighed out the comments I’d received. Where the three really seemed to agree was that this romantic suspense novel was relying a little too much on the romance for suspense, and that grew tiresome.

I needed more tension. I needed more danger. I needed more suspense.

And secretly, I knew they were right because I’d worried about that all along. <Major lesson!

So I started through the book, looking carefully at the story structure, performing that tension check, looking at the scene goals, asking myself how the antagonists might make an appearance or play a bigger role here. I have very strict rules in revision: my first time through, I’m not allowed to correct or change anything (except typos), only make comments. So I made the comments, let the ideas percolate, and started in to work on the changes.

It. Was. Not. Easy. I had to kill my darlings, including a very cute scene that one of the reviewers specifically mentioned liking. Unfortunately, the tension was too low, so large parts of the scene had to go. The heroine transformed from a weak, weepy woman to a fierce, fighting female. I tried to draw the antagonists into every possible scene, beefed up the interactions and tension with the villain, and upped the danger whenever possible.

Sound like a lot of work? It was.

One page from the first chapter, showing the changes from the original submitted version up to the version right before this conference.

By the end of April/beginning of May, I was pretty sure I had something worlds better. I’d submitted the first chapter to the LDStorymakers Conference First Chapter Contest and was trying to forget it. It didn’t work. (I guess I glossed over this, but I hadn’t had the best experiences with contests in the past.)

I guess you could say what followed was the best of times. And the worst of times. But I wasn’t ready to give up on this book quite yet. After all, it was only one rejection, right?

What do you think? When do you give up on a project, and when do you fight for it? Come join in the conversation!

Photo credit: Tilemahos Efthimiadis