My first rejection letter wasn’t my last
rejection letter. It was simply the beginning of a flood of rejection that
began fifteen or so years ago. I remember the wording:

Thank
you for your submission. We’re sorry but…

Worse, and it does get worse, the rejection
letter was accidentally sent to the wrong address, to a different writer who
was also rejected, so she called up to inform my mother of my rejection.

Hi,
I’m calling to let you know that Alice Kuipers’ novel was rejected.

Worse even than that was the gentle, sad
tone of my mother.

I’m
sorry, sweetheart, they rejected your novel.

For a first time rejection, it was a triple
whammy of YOUR BOOK FAILED YOUR BOOK FAILED YOUR BOOK FAILED.

I took a gin and tonic and settled down in
front of bad TV. My book had been humiliated by the agency, the other writer,
my mother. No! I had been humiliated
by them all. Humiliation has a bitter taste, so gin and tonic was perfect to
help me swallow it down. Bitter on bitter. I quit writing forever.

Actually, I quit writing for about a day.
Then I wrote something else. The rejection deluge began.

One afternoon, years later, I gathered
three rejection letters from my mail-slot. They added to the other four I’d
received that week. Seven rejection letters in one week. I slipped on the top
step and the rejection letters and I tumbled to the ground. It was a moment of
humiliation, sure. But also a moment of illumination because I knew, despite my
pathetic situation, I wanted to write a
better book.

One very sore ankle and one very determined
writer were back at my desk the next morning. Writing.

Writing books requires a certain madness. A
delusion that someone else wants your story. A belief that it’s worth doing
even when no-one ever reads it.  A few
days after the seven-rejection-letters-plus-sprained-ankle episode, my first
novel sold. It’s published in lots of countries, it has won lots of awards. The
same with my second and my third novels. Yet, I still get rejection letters. And every letter makes me feel
horrible. And, soon after, it makes me feel like working harder.

Whatever form of response to my books,
whether from a fan or a detractor, I’m still the writer lying on the grass,
rejection letters scattered around me, ankle hurting like crazy. Every single
book I start, I feel the same sense of terror and excitement. The same delusion
and madness. Every single time I know I must put everything I have into the
book. It’s exhausting. It’s exciting.

It’s a risk. A painful, thrilling risk. I’m
totally addicted.

Rejection, bring it on.