Self Care for Writers: Rejection Recovery
- May 26
- 8 min read
Introduction: Rejection Happens (To All of Us)
If you’re a writer, you will get rejected.
Hate to tell you, but I say this not to deter you from your writing dreams, but to welcome you to the club! Every published author you admire has a stack of “No, thanks” letters tucked somewhere. Some of us have entire email folders dedicated to them.
I have an email specifically for submissions. It's got the occasional request, but it's otherwise heavily saturated with form rejections saying "Thank you but not for me."
When I got my first form rejection, it was okay. Sure, not for them, alright, onto the next. But then more came in and I was starting to feel like a fear was coming to fruition. A fear of "I'm not good enough."
Luckily, the forums I visit have assured me and many other writers that this is a regular occurrence. The changes are slim! Let me tell you in this blog post:
Rejection doesn’t mean your work has no value—it means that you’re in "the arena" and doing the work.
So here we are, together, in a space where we can be honest about how much it stings—and how we can recover.
Section 1: The Sting is Real
First things first: let’s not pretend that rejection doesn’t hurt. It 120% f*&%@ing does.
It can bring disappointment, self-doubt, and that a creeping sense of burnout. Sometimes, it’s a "cold" form letter. Other times, it’s a carefully worded personal note that still says “no.” Occasionally, it’s the worst of all: silence.
It’s okay (and ideal) to call rejection what it is—a kind of loss. You poured time, hope, and vulnerability into a piece, and the door closed. That deserves validation. Naming it helps us move through it instead of letting it fester.
You put in the work. Full stop.
Sure, now you have to put in more work, but YOU'RE IN THE ARENA.
Section 2: Let Yourself Feel It
Don't leap over the hurt or run away or avoid it.
Self-care means making space to feel it first. Don’t rush to revise or submit elsewhere right away if your chest still aches.
Ideas for processing:
Journal it out. Pour your feelings onto the page—rage, sorrow, doubt. No one else needs to read it. You're a writer, this should be easy. You can burn it if you like. Or drown the pages. Or shred them. Or bury them. (You always have options)
Venting session. Talk to a trusted writer friend who gets it. Or a non-writer friend who’s willing to listen. Or even your emotional support cat who didn't sign up for any of this but would listen to you for hours if it meant he got the good catnip.
Take a break. Step away from the page for a bit. A walk, a nap, a weekend escape to a quiet town where some friends live—it all counts.
Section 3: De-shame the Game
It's a numbers game. In the publishing world, your precious Magnum Opus is transformed into a number on a long list in a group of lists on a database of folders.
AspiringAuthor.com has an eye opening article: 21 Debut Author Statistics: The Real Odds of Getting Published. Read at your own risk because the reality can be jarring. But it's a reality you must be aware of as a writer!
You can do all you possibly can to make your manuscript perfect. But, according to the article and Wordsrated: From the remaining 5% of high-quality manuscripts left for consideration, most are still rejected due to timing, similar books on their list, or the state of the market.
From this, I'm able to feel a little better than there are just tings out of my control and I can't fixate on them.
Furthermore, Lit Hub has an affirming article on 20 Famous Writers on Being Rejected. Jennifer Egan's quote in a 2010 interview with Christopher Cox stood out to me:
[When I was a reader for The Paris Review,] I learned how many writers there were out there, and it was terrifying! But I also learned not to take the process too seriously. I figured that if I, a nobody in an un-airconditioned East Village apartment (batches of manuscripts were sent to me there), had the power to reject the slush pile, I couldn’t worry too much when my own stuff was rejected. It may have made me more resilient . . . and it definitely spurred me to submit to lots and lots of places at once, and not be so precious about it.
Don't be so precious about it!
Your writing comes from your soft heart, your squishy brain, and the deepest depths of your soul. Those are sacred places.
The arena of submissions is not a sacred place. It's cut throat, the odds are against you, and you have everybody and their cousin giving an opinion.
What is this "arena" I've been alluding to in this post? It has to do with a favorite speech of mine. I have a screenshot of the text as my lock screen.
Theodore Roosevelt delivered this speech entitled “Citizenship in a Republic” at the Sorbonne in Paris on April 23, 1910. The speech is popularly known as “The Man in the Arena.”
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
So, reader, let me assure you that a rejection is proof that you are in the arena. Even if you fail you fail daring greatly. And you only fail when you give up!
So don't give up, friend. Keep at it. Rebuild.
But how?
Section 4: Rebuild Gently
Now I'm not saying that all of this is just in your head. But it starts in your head!
And we at Takes One to Write One always promote mental health.
You may have seen folks in socials post about their rejection therapy in asking things that they normally wouldn't. While that's useful, allow me to explain something a little more peer-reviewed: Acceptance and Commitment Therapy.
Here’s a quick primer on the six core processes of ACT:
Acceptance: You accept that you’ll have a range of thoughts or emotions that can be positive, negative or anything in between.
You just got a rejection email and feel embarrassed, angry, and defeated. Instead of pushing those feelings away or pretending they don’t matter, you pause and say, “Of course I’m disappointed. I really wanted this.” You allow the emotion to be there without needing to “fix” it or shame yourself for feeling it.
Cognitive defusion: You detach or distance yourself from negative thoughts and beliefs. You see a thought as a passing event instead of a truth that drives your actions.
When the thought pops up—“I’m a terrible writer”—you label it: “I’m having the thought that I’m a terrible writer.” You might even say it out loud in a silly voice or write it down to break its power. That thought still exists, but you’re not treating it as fact anymore—just noise.
Being present: Your focus is on how you feel in the moment. You minimize planning for future “what ifs” so you can see more of what’s happening around you.
Instead of spiraling into “What if I never get published?,” you close your eyes and ground yourself: What do I hear right now? What does the chair feel like under me? What am I working on today, just for today? You return to the writing itself—this sentence, this page, etc.
Self-as-context: You see yourself as a whole person with an identity. You aren’t solely defined by your experiences, thoughts or feelings.
You remind yourself: “I’m not just a writer who got rejected today. I’m also a friend, a (pet) parent, a reader, a learner. I’m growing. I’ve had good writing days and I’ll have more.”
You step back and see your identity as broader than this moment of pain.
Values: You set your own standards that you want to live up to. These values are yours and not driven by the influence of others.
You write because you care about storytelling, truth, humor, justice, imagination—or whatever else lights you up. Rejection might sting, but you ask: “Does this change what I value?” Probably not. You recommit to those values even when external validation is missing.
Committed action: You make changes that help you meet your goals. These goals should align with your values.
After sitting with your feelings and revisiting your “why,” you decide to revise that rejected piece—or start a new one. You set a small, doable goal for the week: “I’ll submit one story,” or “I’ll write for 20 minutes a day.” The action is gentle, but forward-moving—and it honors what matters to you.
How does this help protect your confidence while staying honest?
The main benefit of acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT) is psychological flexibility. This means you can recognize how your emotions play a role in your life, but you don’t feel overwhelmed by them.
Revisit your “why”—affirm your purpose and voice:
Ask: Why did I start writing in the first place?
What do I want readers to feel or know?
What do I get from writing, regardless of publication?
Section 5: Strategic Steps Forward
Once you’ve felt the sting and given yourself space to recover, it’s time to think practically.
Rejection doesn’t have to mean the end for your piece. It just means you have a decision to make about what comes next.
Decide what to do with the piece:
Revise: Was there feedback you want to address? Or, with fresh eyes, do you see ways to strengthen it?
Resubmit: Not all rejections mean “this is bad.” Sometimes it’s just “not right for us.” Consider sending it elsewhere, maybe even without changes.
Shelve for now: It’s okay to set it aside. Rest can give you distance and insight. Shelving doesn’t necessarily mean giving up. You're just letting letting things marinate.
YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! There’s no wrong answer here.
Consider joining a writer’s group or accountability circle. Matter of fact, read my post on Self Care for Writers: Finding Other Writers.
Take these strategic steps as an act of hope. By doing so, you say: I’m not done. I still believe in my work. I’m going to keep going.
Conclusion: Keep the Door Open
If you take only one thing from this, let it be this: rejection isn’t a verdict on your talent or your worth.
It’s one editor’s “not right now.” It’s one agent’s “not for me.” It’s one journal’s “we don’t have room.”
It’s never “you’re not good enough to be a writer.”
The only writers who don’t get rejected are the ones who stop submitting. And you’re not going to stop. Because you have something to say.
So feel the sting. Let yourself process it. Learn what you can. Then keep the door open. Open to growth. Open to new drafts. Open to new markets. Open to possibility.
I invite you to share your own rejection recovery tips or stories in the comments below!
Keep writing. We need your voice,
Katherine Arkady
Excellent piece