Calvin Mills

Mathematics, Gallbladders, and Sticking Your Babies in the Mail

When it comes time to periodically refresh my supply of stories, essays, and poems begging for acceptance on a variety of editor’s desks and hard drives around the globe, I inevitably feel like an adoption broker in an age where there are millions of great orphans, but only a hundred stable parents who might be willing to take one in, give him a good home, and love him forever. The worst part is the devastating look on the proverbial faces of the pieces. They look up at me with big hopeful orphan eyes. For their sake, I too must have hope. I must keep a realistic perspective on the adoption process, for I must slap postage on their foreheads, and slam-dunk my babies into the mail.

My original philosophy surrounding the issue of literary submissions came to me after reading somewhere that The Atlantic Monthly (back when they accepted story submissions) received roughly a thousand stories a month. That meant that even if my work were of sufficient caliber to be seriously considered for publication in one of the big magazines, my statistical chance of getting published would be roughly 1 in 1,000. The writer of this particular piece went on to speculate that if a writer’s work were very good, it might improve her chances to roughly 1 in 100—not at the Atlantic necessarily, but in one of many other reputable national literary magazines. This was the single most important piece of information I’d ever read about submitting to magazines. Why? Because my doubts were no longer based entirely on questions of acceptance or rejection guided by the subjective views of powerful and fickle strangers. Playing out my destiny became a relatively simple mathematical, statistical endeavor. That day I made two decisions. One: I would not set my heart on The Atlantic Monthly. Two: Because I had little confidence, even in my best efforts, I would send out 100 submissions. If none were published, I’d consider giving up. If one happened to be accepted somewhere, I would then allow myself to believe that my work was strong enough to warrant my continued devotion.

This simple mathematical approach allowed me to see my rejections not as personal attacks but as steps forward, items checked off a list. Incidentally, this method did work for me. I landed a story before I hit 100. I still use this method from story to story. I keep sending them out, and sometimes I actually smile a bit when I get a rejection in the mail, because it means my evil plan is working.

Now that you’re considering doing the math and sending your big-eyed babes out into the wild, wild world, here are a few thoughts to help you stay sane during the process:

1. Never have just one baby in the mail. The more you have out there, the better your chances, and the less it will sting when one comes back crying. As long as there’s still another one out there, there’s still a sliver of hope. And in most artistic endeavors, a sliver is about as good as it gets.

2. Consider the magical power of “buffer time”. No, I’m not talking about a watch-polishing machine or wrinkle reduction balm. I’m talking about the fact that journals generally take so long to respond that by the time you get a baby back, you’ll probably have to dust her off to see what her name is and who rejected her.

3. Read rejection letters just far enough to determine they are actually rejection letters. Then stop reading. Why endow a photocopied scrap of cheap paper or a mail-merged letter with the emotional equivalent of the Voice of God? I’d say don’t read them at all, but you may get an acceptance letter in the mail from time to time. I did once, and I nearly threw it away. Maybe the journal was old school, or maybe they were so under-funded they didn’t have a phone or a computer in their office. For whatever reason, some will still send the good news the old fashioned way.

4. Sometimes adversity is your friend. Don’t believe me? Make a list of 100 successful child actors. Try to find more than five who you admire now that they’re grown up. Or say you write a half-assed story and send it away, and by some fluke it is published. Then you’ll be tempted to crank out more half-assed stories in a rush for a long list of publications. You won’t challenge yourself, or grow as a writer, and you may never get published again. Or say you write a successful novel, and you (sniff sniff) have to tour the world promoting it. How are you supposed to write your next great book while signing a bunny’s breasts or some Chippendale’s stairway to heaven, making witty banter with Sarah Vowell, and Dave Eggers, and sitting down for interviews on NPR? Okay, the items above don’t really have to be mutually exclusive, do they? As writers we all know a well-rounded, complicated character is better than a stereotype.

5. Remember that there is always another (or a better) magazine out there. Most of my babes who’ve found homes had been previously rejected on many occasions. And I’ve had wee ones rejected by skinny, Kinko’s printed homes, and later picked up and paid for by bigger, shinier, name-droppier, literary “families”. Right now, the word I might use to describe the early rejections in those cases is something akin to joy, or bliss.

Of course, after the thin, crummy advice above wears off, some small part of you is bound to feel like a failure when an editor sends a neglected baby back to your ZIP code. But don’t let that part of you be a big, important organ like your brain or your heart. Don’t even let it be your lungs—we don’t want them letting you down while you sleep. Sleep apnea is a bitch. Allow the failure to be housed in a small unimportant organ inside you—one you can live without. A tonsil or appendix would be my first choice, but many of you may already be sans these superfluous organs. Then what? Okay, I know what you’re considering, but let’s not lose our fertility over this. I was thinking more along the lines of the gallbladder, or a single kidney. Do some research, and choose your own failure hotel somewhere on a less popular street along the super-highways that are your entrails. Once you’ve designated the location, run your establishment like the old commercials for the Roach Motel, “Rejections check in—but they don’t check out!”

So do the math, drop the tykes in one of those big blue boxes on the street corner, then go home and write some more. Meanwhile, listen carefully. When you hear the mailman, warm a bottle of milk, and find a clean onesie for the wee angel. As for the reject stow-away he brings along, you’ll need to call your gallbladder to see about a reservation.

 

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