We are so happy to have the great Sommer Marsden with us today!
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly...
Well, let's face it--rejections are never good, are they? But truly they can be. Let's take for example a rejection I received just last week. I finally got around to subbing to a major print magazine and received an email regarding my snail mail submission. This can be good. An email is a quick way to contact you. So, it can often mean a sale if it is in response to a paper submission. And all of that ran through my head when I saw it. So, of course I opened the email with much anticipation and excitement. It was a rejection. Ah, but it was a good rejection. It basically said that she loved my story but it was wrong for what they publish. Therefore she was sending me some samples in the mail to look over so I could try again.
Come on, that's good, right? A very nice editor giving me a very nice compliment and taking time to send me material so I can give it another go. I have to say, as far as rejection goes, it doesn't get much better than that.
Rule number one: Any feedback rocks. It means a busy frazzled editor is taking the time to help you learn something about your writing. Very. Good. Thing.
As for bad. Well, to a degree they are all bad. They all put a little dent in the ego. This can last minutes, hours, days, week, months, or possibly centuries. Okay, so centuries is a bit much. But it does suck and the best thing to do is just sink down into your pity party and have at it. Just monitor it. Don't let it go on for too long or you will never get anything done. Cry, have a glass of wine, drive your husband insane, go for a walk, paint your fingernails or eat a box of cookies. Go on, get it out of your system. Writing is a labor of love and as the J. Geils Band so eloquently put it: Love stinks, yeah, yeah...
At least sometimes.
Rule number two: Allow your pity party to commence but don't make it an all-nighter.
Now let's tackle the ugly. The ugliest of ugly in my book is the dreaded and hopefully avoidable...((((echoing silence)))) This is the rejection that comes in the form of complete an total nothingness. You are ignored. You are not answered when you query. It is as if you are invisible.
This is not to say that every time you never hear you have been dismissed. I have fallen through the cracks (paperwork not ass) and upon query an editor will get back to me and let me know for sure if I am in or out. But when I query and there is..(((sounds of crickets chirping))) I kind of lose my mind. To me a curt "No" is a thousand times better than a great black void of silence. So in those instances, all I can say is, Karma's a bitch.
Rule three: Karma's a bitch. What goes around comes around. Amen.
Above all else, never give up. I do not give up so you are not allowed to give up. Keep plugging along. Have hope, have wine, bitch, moan, cry and talk it out with your fellow writers. But never ever give up. Or I will come find you. Seriously. Get back to work.
Here is a look at Double Booked by Sommer Marsden:
Blyth’s on a forced vacation. She’s supposed to relax, regroup and recover from a failing marriage. It should be heaven. Instead, she finds she’s double booked into her not so haven-ish condo with a playboy like no other. Anthony is her roommate and the man who just might push her over the edge. He’s cocky, rude, domineering and sexy as hell. Is he just a fling or is there more to this bad boy than meets the eye? After all, her vacation can’t be all voyeurism, spanking and power play…right?
Excerpt (Adult) :
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. Now vegetables were turning me on. Maybe Anthony secreted some pheromone that made the women in a five mile radius turn to ravenous sex goddesses.
“What about him?” he said right into my ear and let out a yelp. I clutched my heart and dropped the cucumber I had been lusting after.
“Jumpy, aren’t’ you?” He retrieved the poor abused vegetable and put it back into my hand. His eyes lit up and he rested one big hand on my flank. Only one finger moved. Just one. He stroked that small patch of skin through my cotton dress. “I know what you were thinking,” he said in a somehow manly sing-song.
“About a salad!”
“Nope. About sex. What that would feel like. Or imagining it was me. It’s a toss up.” His grin was completely self-assured.
“I would not stoop to produce,” I lied through my teeth.
“And yet, you’re not ready for the real thing.”
“I say,” he said and placed his arms around me without touching me. He straddled my arms with his arms. His chest, nearly but not quite touching my back, and began to wheel the cart. “You have that wounded soldier thing about you. You have seen the worst and you’re not quite ready to get back into the swing of things. But you’re dying to.”
“With you? You assume?” I snorted for effect but my stomach was fluttering to the point of nausea.
“Yes. With me.” His lips were touching my ear now. Any fool could see my nipples poking against the thin fabric of my dress. I bit my tongue to keep from moaning.
“You have it too,” I hissed because he had backed me into a corner. I was wounded and it pissed me off.
“I have what?” The very tip of his tongue touched the rim of my ear. My pussy went liquid. My boring panties were soaked. My blood hummed under my skin.
“The wounded soldier thing about you.”
Then he was gone. His heat, his face, his tongue. Gone. He had retreated so fast it was like a vacuum. “What’s for dinner? If I’m invited,” he said gruffly, taking his arms from around me.
“Garlic shrimp. Salad. Some kind of dessert,” I stammered, more than a little confused.
He opened his wallet and handed me a twenty. “Here. Use this to help pay. I’ll meet you outside,” he said and walked off.
I watched him go. “Okay,” I said to no one.