When is it time to quit?

This week, I have received three rejections from literary magazines for a short story I recently sent for their consideration. To date, this story has been turned down 35 times. Only recently have I started keeping track of how many times a story has been rejected, and was doing so mostly for the benefit of Story, being able to talk with staff and interns about the importance of a good submission process, a reasonable response time, and clear communication with our author.

Of course, there is a benefit to me, too. For years, I have been using the same basic tracker, an Excel sheet that lists the literary magazine, its reading period, and the last five stories I have sent out into the world. In the past, I have had more than one story on submission; further, I usually leave a recently published story in my tracker because it is nice to see ACCEPTED!!! in one or two places in the spreadsheet. For the most part, my list of markets has been unchanged. Add a few (Taco Bell Quarterly, Stinging Fly) and drop a few (Tin House, Glimmer Train) but loosely, there are 125 literary magazines that I think pretty highly of and who are the ones to whom I send my stories.

I don’t know the highest number of rejections I’ve collected on a single story before 1. Shelving it 2. Rewriting it or 3. Adding to a future collection but no longer sending it out to magazines. Guessing, I would put the most rejections I’ve accumulated on a single story around 50. Purely a guess. Both of my collections have stories that have never appeared in a magazine.

Thinking back on those stories, I can see why an editor would say No, either because they have a particular tone or, candidly, it’s a good not great story. But the story that is currently on submission, well, I have re-read it, and I firmly believe it is one of my better stories.

So, then, here is the question.

When is it time to quit?

During my sophomore year of college, I joined the crew team. This was a year when I was emotionally lost. I switched dorms between my freshman and sophomore year, and was living with people I didn’t know well or like much. My grades were middling, and I didn’t have any idea why I was in college or what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I was living in a massive 23 story concrete octagon (one of the two Towers at Ohio State) (no, I am not a Tolkien nerd, but I see where you mind went…), the first fifteen floors of which were administrative and the top eight being living space. Most night, I would go to the dorms front desk and check out the remote and sit by myself in the lounge area and watch NBA games.

I tend to view the past with rose-colored glasses, and so I’m on the verge of writing “It wasn’t all that bad” so if I’m even thinking, gee I was pretty depressed that year, I was probably super fucking depressed that year. From those top eight floors, I had an expansive view of the flatlands surrounding campus—particularly 30 years ago—with just a few streetlights spotting the dark campus walkways. Even in warm weather, this view was grim.

I can’t remember how I got involved with the crew team. It was a club sport. I was on the lightweight boat, in a middle seat. I don’t remember ever really enjoying being on the team, or on the water, or in the boathouse lifting weights and training. I don’t remember anyone from the team being friendly, let alone being a friend, and today, I can’t recall a single name of any of them.

That year, the team went south for spring break—Tennessee, I think—to train and bond or whatnot. I didn’t go. I remember I spoke on the phone with the coach, who barely tried to talk me into going down there. I was back at my mom’s house, probably doing not much.

What I do remember is talking to my friend Jackie. We were close friends in high school, and in college, she was a water skier at the University of Alabama. When I told her about the team, spring break, the training, etc. I’m sure I wasn’t very articulate about what I was feeling, what I wanted to do. She said to me, “Hey, it’s okay to quit. You don’t have to make yourself feel miserable.”

It's okay to quit.

First: I’m fine. I am not suicidal. I do not have cancer. I have not been fired. Liz has not packed up our daughter and abandoned me for an underwear model.

No, what I’m feeling is that there is too much to do and not enough time. This isn’t exactly a groundbreaking revelation; I have read two very good books about how to focus and how to make choices, and there are plenty of YouTube videos from Daniel Pink and whosits that can help a person choose better.

But being human is hard. In particularly, being a human living in this country in this era is hard. As a middle-aged dude, I have definitely internalized the idea of “work harder.” There was a recent episode of Search Engine that asked “Is it okay to just work all the time?” and I very much wanted the answer to be YES. (there is also a Search Engine episode called “Does anyone actually like their job?” so, clearly, pulling a 180 on this subject is pretty normal) Granted, the kind of work I like to do best—write fiction, read fiction, edit a literary magazine—is the kind of work that, frankly, pays the least, which is a little bit of a problem.

One of the adages of the self-help movement is to default to No. When asked to do something, the answer is No unless it is an emphatic, enthusiastic, ecstatic YES. I’m just not that way. I’m a helper. I focus on others to the point of ignoring or burning myself out. I have been this way for a long time.

Back to the crew team. I actually don’t remember much about my phone call with the coach or with my friend Jackie or much about the couple of months I was training with the team. What I really remember from that moment in time was that it is okay to quit.

Does anyone care about my short stories? My unfinished novel? My magazine? I realize this probably sounds like I’m whining, but I’m really not. More people will open this email—just this one—then have purchased (let alone read) my last short story collection, my third and most recent and best book that barely sold half as many copies of my novel.

Why work on something that doesn’t get read?

The last story I published, “Flawed Creatures,” appeared in North American Review. Liz read this story and we had a long talk about it because she was really upset. In a good way: the story struck a chord about how people behave and why and what they conceal and their fears. I felt a peculiar mixture of worry that I had so upset Liz, but also, proud that I was successful (with one reader) at exploring the kind of questions I hope to experience in books. I don’t know if I’ve ever pulled this off before. Which is to say that, with a subjective measurement of one reader, I’m better at writing fiction than I ever before.

So why should I quit?

Because no one reads it. Because it takes months to write 20 good pages. Because there is a literary magazine with a volunteer staff and thousands of submissions, all of whom are depending on you to make a decision—just one—to keep things moving forward. Because your daughter wants to play. Because you have to make breakfast, lunch, dinner. Because of the piles of laundry and the kitchen is dirty and when was the last time these floors have been cleaned? Because you’re only half-paying attention at work and your boss is new to being a manager and she will find a way to criticize your work every single day and, c’mon be honest, you’re only doing an average job at best and barely paying attention in all these dumb meetings because you’re thinking about getting the oil changed or buying a present for a particular person or holiday or holiday person and you haven’t changed the air filter and the grass needs to be mowed and you need new windows on your house and did you fill out that insurance paperwork and, look, your manager found another thing that you didn’t hear or remember or write down and you remember what it was like when you were looking for work for a year and who can listen for an hour-long meeting mid-afternoon anyway and do you have pickup today or does Liz and when was the last time you went to the gym, which you really miss doing but your knees are shot and your left bicep hurts when you press overhead and what day of the week is it and the President did what, and why aren’t you at a protest or donating to a PAC or writing your congresswoman—shit, did I vote in the school board election this week?—and why you are whining you have it better than 97% of people in this country, and yeah, how’s your writing going?

A few weeks ago, I was at the AWP conference and several of you came up to me and said how much you like and appreciate the newsletter. Maybe I’m misremembering: maybe it was, like, two people. Felt like more.

I do not have a definitive answer as to what to do or why. Otherwise, I’d be writing from the other side of this feeling, either with wonderful advice for you or a delightful personal narrative of success. If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, this is where I would typically make a turn, a revelation, an epiphany, a triumphant call to arms for art and creativity.

But right now, I ain’t got it. I write that I ain’t got it on a night of good sleep with a second cup of coffee down the hatch and the sun is shining. Like you, I am doing the best I can and feeling like I’m failing a standard I cannot define or explain.

On our refrigerator is a magnet with a famous Emerson quote:

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

Maybe sometime soon I will actually feel that last sentence.

Three Better Things to Read:

1. Katie Gatti Tassin hosts one of my favorite podcasts, Money With Katie, which has slowly morphed from “You can do it!” personal finance to a thoughtful examination of our dystopic financial and social systems. She also hosts Diabolical Lies and has a wonderful interview with her co-host, Caro Claire Burke.

2. Jia Tolentino on trying to balance her mental state as she struggles to understand what is real.

3. I’m tremendously enjoying this book.

Until the next time,

Michael

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