An Orchid a Day

Recently, in my SGR Journal blog HERE, I shared that for many years, almost every day I walked past the famed Jivamukti Yoga Center in NYC.

The plaque outside offered this alchemical proverb as a perpetual reminder:

“Through repetition, the magic is forced to rise.”

It was a solid reminder that just as a single sit-up doesn’t give you washboard abs, a single positive affirmation rarely transforms your consciousness.

Even so, I’ve found that often the most challenging part of this month’s theme of Getting In the Reps — meditation HERE — isn’t just staying the course.

It’s when the reps not only require persistence but also involve rejection.

Certainly, we’ve all experienced some degree of heartbreak over a rejection.

Whether that’s learning our grade school crush doesn’t share our eternal love, or not getting into our top choice of graduate program, everyone has felt that painful sting.

While a single rejection might range from unpleasant to devastating, an accumulation of them can feel overwhelming, like turning over a hornet’s nest.

That’s why getting in the reps can be that much harder when rejection is part of it.

At what point does it become the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back?

There are so many famous stories about massive literary rejections before an author or a book triumphed.

Frank Herbert’s Dune was rejected by over 20 publishers, and Stephen King’s breakthrough novel Carrie was rejected by 30.

Dr. Seuss’s first children’s book — And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street — was also rejected by more than 20 publishers, and more recently, Harry Potter was rejected by 12 before becoming its own media empire.

My favorite story, though, is for a book I love, Patrick Dennis’s Auntie Mame.

In an almost absurdly procedural way, the manuscript was submitted to publishers alphabetically.

After 19 or so rejections, the novel was finally accepted by Vanguard Press.

If that hadn’t happened — unless there’s some publisher beginning with X, Y, or Z — after Vanguard, Viking might have been the only option left before literary oblivion.

I’ve experienced the same.

I probably have the letters saved somewhere deep in storage, but when my agent was sending out Yoga in Bed, it was an endless sea of lovely responses — all of them rejections.

Editors praised the writing or found the concept charming, but passed because they either felt the market was saturated or their last yoga book hadn’t done that well.

I think we’d submitted to about 15 publishers when we finally got a yes, one that changed everything.

When the publicity took off for the project — TV spots with Kelly Ripa, People, and Oprah’s and Martha Stewart’s magazines — it was as though history was being rewritten.

Somehow once something succeeds in a big way, that success suddenly seems inevitable.

The reality, however, is that if we had stopped one rep earlier, it might never have happened at all.

Even though we writers like to complain — a lot — if we’re being honest, there’s a comfortable distance between you and polite rejection letters in the mail.

My heart goes out to my performer friends who often face those negative verdicts face-to-face.

Beyond that, while I’m deeply connected to what I’ve written, it’s the work that’s being rejected, not me personally.

Of course, there’s always the question of rightness for the role, but for performers the rejection can still feel much more personal.

That’s why I marveled at what a genius coach I knew offered in a six-week creative career program I took right after college.

He flipped the scenario completely on its head.

Rather than avoiding rejection, he created a competition that sought it out.

His brilliant idea was that the winner would be whoever got 100 rejections first.

Stories abound from workshop participants — empowered by this opposite-world goal — who went all out with auditions and applications and then had major successes.

Whether this was because they were desensitized to being rejected and this shifted their performance, or simply because the numbers game worked for them, doesn’t matter.

Amusingly, however, often when their quest for yet another “No” turned into an unexpected “Yes,” they were surprised, then slightly disappointed, before realizing they had something more to celebrate.

In a similar comic twist, I recently learned how celebrity realtor Ryan Serhant — who shares my July 2nd birthday — deals with rejection.

It’s certainly memorable, if ever so slightly obnoxious.

In several interviews, he describes how after every professional rejection he sends an orchid with a note thanking the person for the opportunity, adding — as a statement of his own value — “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Serhant even states that “my job is being rejected,” sharing that his latest Netflix show was passed on 79 times.

Rather than being devastating, rejection for him is now a theatrical ritual, one with more than a dash of bravado.

And since Serhant admits he’s done this several thousand times, it’s also a rather expensive one, too.

I do want to explore the other side of this, that moment when getting in the reps suddenly leads to the tipping point.

Today, though, I wanted to address how for many of us, rejection — especially when repeated — can feel like a verdict.

When rejection becomes part of our reps, it can indeed feel like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

Interestingly, in looking up that phrase, I’ve learned it began not with a camel and a straw, but with a feather and a horse.

Somehow that makes the idea even more delicate: that the tiniest final repetition — the merest feather — can suddenly become too much.

Even so, we have to find a way to carry on.

We may not have the budget for orchids for everyone who says no to us, but we can all take comfort in how many great successes came after door after door was slammed shut.

Whether you proceed alphabetically or simply try to get to 100 Nos, it’s through repetition that the magic will rise — and you might just get that one “Yes” that changes everything.

Tell A New Story. Transform Your Life.

If you’re at your own tipping point — or trying to get there — I have a few private coaching spots open this week.

Reply to this email and I’ll send you the info and options.

P.S. If you’d rather work through the next chapter on your own, my Rapid Reinvention Workshop is a game-changer.

It’s available:

HERE