Rejection!

 For years—no, decades—I have used Minister and Writer for the profession category when submitting my annual state and federal taxes.

 For decades I have declared losses. Back in the day, before the internet became as common as a cold, every manuscript I submitted to a literary agent required trips to Kinko* for copying and hefty postage fees for mailing. Today or yesteryear, there are lots of expenses for ministry and writing.

For all those decades, between the time I sent my tax forms and when I received a response from the IRS informing me that I owed more money or they owed me money, I wondered if I would be audited. Now that I’ve put the “A” word in a publicly accessible document, I’ll wonder and worry that the IRS’ sneaky algorithms and mean-spirited A.I. thugs will track me down for a long overdue a-u-d-i-t.

About the only time I nearly made money on writing was the year I self-published my nonfiction book A Companion for the Hospice Journey. The bad news: I paid for it to be edited and for an artist to create the front and back covers. The good news: I had a nice following from my hospice-oriented blog and Companion won an award in a national contest. I had sales. Nonetheless, the “bad” news added up to more $$$ than the “good” news.

Let ‘em at me!

My losses are real.

+     +     +

 “So, Mr. Patten,” Ms. Calculate from the IRS asks, “you’re a writer. Indeed, you write a lot, eh?”

 “Yes, I do,” I said.

 “I assume,” she continued with fleeting smile, “that writers who write a lot make a lot of money?”

 Above and behind her, the wall included a framed poster of Edvard Munch’s The Scream and a strangely large oval clock. The clock loudly ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. I thought it should be fixed, but then I thought that maybe it was fixed. For ticking. Loudly.

 I stared at her bright green like the color of money eyes, and said, “Your assumption would be wrong.”

 Ms. Calculate frowned. Fleetingly.

 “Prove it,” she said.

 “Prove what?”

 “That you’re a writer who doesn’t make money.”

 Outside her office window, a dog barked. Horns honked. Across a hallway from her partially open door, one of her colleagues bellowed a curse and kicked a copy machine.

 I didn’t hesitate. “First, Ms. Calculate, I created you. I gave you that silly name and your green eyes. Did you realize only two percent of the world’s population has green eyes?”

She shrugged, but I could tell I held her interest.

“Whereas,” I continued, “as many as seventy-five percent have brown eyes.”

 “Your point,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

 “Well, in all of the novels written since the year 2000, thirty-eight percent of the female characters have green eyes.”

 “Is that a fact.” Still not a question.

 “No, it’s fiction. The two-percent is real, but the thirty-eight isn’t. Even though I made it up, which by the way is what novelists do for a living, it seems true. People like green eyes. Sexy. Intriguing. Unique.”

 “Are you saying I’m sexy?” She smiled. Not so fleeting this time.

 “Would that help my case?”

 Ms. Calculate laughed. Her fictional green eyes glared at me.

Outside, a dog barked. Again. After all, writers know it’s important to include details that help make the characters’ world feel real. The smell of stale coffee. Shuffling papers. A sudden “S**t!” from an unnamed fictional colleague.

“Prove it,” she repeated.

+     +     +

 Prove you’re a writer. If you have a published book from an established publisher, it’s easy to prove. Any traditionally or self-published writer who keeps halfway decent records can hand expenses and income data to the tax man. Or woman.

I also like to think rejections prove it. I’ve gotten a lot of ‘em and keep a file! 

One of those many rejections came last week. I’m fairly certain its arrival inspired this musing.

Dear Larry,
Thanks so much for your query for FINDING JOHN MUIR and I'm so sorry for this very late response. Although this query isn't right for me I wish you all the best as you continue your path to publication . . .

My brown and not green eyes re-read the email. I muttered, “Huh?”

The novel I’m querying—queries are brief, informational letters sent to literary agents—is entitled WILD BLESSINGS. Wait. The original working title was FINDING JOHN MUIR. Months later I changed it to THROUGH A FOREST WILDERNESS. I changed it again to its current name.

The agent was “sorry” for the “very late response.” I opened my Excel spreadsheet (take that, Ms. Calculate and the IRS!) to search for when I contacted this agent.

June 11, 2025.

 Fifteen months later, which truly is “very late,” I was rejected.

How do you prove you’re a writer?

Sales help.

Expenses, especially with receipts, help.

 Rejections hurt, but they also help prove it. Even when the rejections are very, very, very late.

Thanks for reading. More next week . . .

in Peace,

Larry Patten

 *What’s Kinkos, younger readers might ask? That’s another story for another time…

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash