The Origins of Rejection

When I reject my own idea, it feels like such a moment of superiority. I delete a sentence from a story I’m writing, deciding it’s now garbage, and I self-congratulate for catching it and making the story better.

If an editor does the exact same thing, I want to curl up on the sofa and sob.

Actually, I curl up on the sofa and sob. It’s not just a “want.”

Adam Grant had a piece in the New York Times on rejection, and he pointed out why it feels horrible:

Apparently, this was adaptive in our evolutionary past. If rejection didn’t sting, you might have been perfectly comfortable leaving your tribe, which would not bode well for your survival. But it’s left us wired to overreact to everyday rejections. If you’ve ever given a presentation and felt crushed by the one scowling face in a room full of smiles, you know what I mean.

Isn’t that interesting? It’s there to keep us a little uncomfortable, a little scared. Because if we didn’t worry at all, we would leap forward, unafraid to try and be rejected because rejection wouldn’t have the same negative meaning.

I know I went into a profession — writing — that has a lot of rejection built into the experience. Perhaps more than the average job. I love to write, but I hate rejection. It makes for a cringe-filled existence.