Rhinoceros Skin

Handling Rejection and Criticism

As writers, we like to boast that we are experts at handling rejection and criticism. Especially if we began our odyssey in the writing business before the internet age and received all those mimeographed or xeroxed form rejection letters. We talk about how we wallpapered rooms with rejections or filled shoeboxes with them, how we endured the most ruthless editors and now we have the metaphorical bulletproof skin. We tell new authors that they too will develop this armor after a hundred or so rejections. We tell them about the tears and self-doubt that turned into stubborn determination and finally success and we look askance at writers who take the easy route and self publish or send stories to “for-the-luv” publications rather than enduring the gauntlet of brutal editors we did. We are proud of how we came out the other side of all that pain and heartache as seasoned professionals with rhinoceros skin. But did we though?

I have seen so many authors lately throw tantrums online when they are corrected for their behavior or opinions. When their racism, or sexism, or homophobia, or transphobia is exposed they act like they were mortally wounded. “How dare you call me a bigot !?!” followed by them doubling down on their bigotry. 

I have seen these thick-skinned professionals cry like scalded infants when they get a bad review or don't get invited to sit on a panel at a convention or don’t get a reading spot or didn’t win an award. It's enough to make me question if we really are the masters of accepting rejection we profess to be. I can tell you right now, I am not.

Bad reviews wound me. I had to stop Googling myself because it doesn't matter how many positive reviews I read, that one bad one is enough to make me question my entire worth as a writer. Not getting nominated for an award when I pen the best work I've ever written wounds me. Especially seeing new authors collecting awards year after year when I've been in the game since many of them were still being potty trained with only one long ago poetry nomination  to show for it. Seeing new authors sell thousands of copies while I struggle to sell a few hundred wounds me. Getting called out recently when I accidentally kink-shamed an entire group of friends wounded me. Not getting invited to anthologies that seemed tailored for me wounds me. You would think I had the skin of a newborn rather than a rhinoceros.

I have a thousand holes in my armor, but still I persist. I don't cry or whine when I am criticized or lash out at my critics. I seek opportunities to improve. When I am wrong in my words, actions, or ideas, I don't lash back at those who call me on my shit. I do the easiest of all things – I apologize. And then I do the hardest of all things – I change. I grow. If I don't win an award or get that anthology invitation or guest of honor spot, I try to find out why, and I adjust. If those young whippersnappers are outselling or outshining me, I don't try to dim their shine, I ask them what they are doing that I am not, and I learn from them, and I am better for it.

A few years ago, yet another seasoned professional went on a bigoted rant and then acted like he was the victim when called out on it and doubled down on his bigotry. I said then that if I ever fail to keep up with society’s moral progress and find that my outdated views are now offensive, that I want my friends to call me out on it. Don't allow me to use my age as an excuse. Don't allow me to fall back on the fact that I was born in a different time. Because, if I stop growing, I will surely rot. 

If I ever become jaded and bitter, jealous of other writer's success, remind me that once there were older writers jealous of my success. Remind me that maybe I can learn from these new writers and that maybe they can help me to stay relevant in these changing times. To not look at them as competition, but potential allies.

If I ever get angry and lose my shit all over social media when I receieve a scathing review, remind me of that thick skin I'm supposed to have. Remind me to look at the content of the critique, and find within it ways to improve my writing. 

If I am ever angry because I didn't get invited to a specific anthology or convention or didn’t make a “best of” list or win an award. Remind me of all the anthologies I was invited to, all the conventions I was a guest of honor at, all the “best of” lists I have been on, and all the writers who have been in the game even longer than I who have never received so much as a nomination. Remind me that the world does not owe me shit. Remind me to toughen the fuck up, and grow some rhinoceros skin.