Rejection Letters as Love Letters

Rejection is a writer’s first language. Before the book deal, before the glowing review, before anyone cares what you’re doing, you’re going to get told no. Over and over. And over.

Every rejection is a strange kind of love letter. It doesn’t look like one, of course. It looks like an email with “unfortunately” in the first sentence, or a letter with a polite “not the right fit.” It looks cold. Impersonal. Almost lazy. But underneath, rejection says: you tried. You’re in the game. You cared enough to send your words out into the world instead of hoarding them in a drawer.

That’s not nothing. That’s the beginning.

Most people never even get to rejection. They never submit, never share, never risk the no. They keep their words hidden, safe but silent. Writers get rejected because writers are brave enough to ask.

And the stories behind those rejections? They’re priceless. Writers wear them like war wounds. The clipped, one-sentence “not for us.” The feedback that makes zero sense. The rejection that arrives six months late, long after you forgot you even submitted. They sting, but they also make for the best stories at the bar, the best pep talks to friends, the best reminder that rejection is universal.

Love letters don’t always say what you want to hear. Some are blunt, some are confusing, some are poorly written themselves. But every rejection carries proof that your work made it into someone else’s hands. For a few seconds, your words lived in another mind. They were considered. That’s intimacy, in its own strange way.

Rejection also teaches. Each one nudges you closer to the piece that will land, the editor who will get it, the reader who will light up. Every no shapes the yes that’s coming. Without rejection, we’d never sharpen our voices or strengthen our skin.

Next time you get a rejection, don’t treat it like a death sentence. Treat it like a postcard from the universe saying: keep going. You’re on the right road. The yes is out there, but the no is part of the map.

Rejection hurts. It’s supposed to. But it also means you’re moving, you’re risking, you’re reaching out. And that’s love, the tough, awkward, slightly embarrassing kind of love that only writing can deliver.

Save those rejection letters. Print them out. Tape them to the wall. Read them as proof that your words matter enough to get rejected in the first place. Every “no” is a reminder that you’re not invisible. You’re a writer. And you’re still in the game.