What I Learned from Rejections in the 1970s

Rejection has a particular sound when it arrives by post. First comes the scrape of the envelope through the letterbox, then the quick glance at the return address, followed by the recognition that the envelope is too light. A publisher has sent the manuscript back. There is no long explanation, no useful editorial report, and often no more than a courteous sentence thanking the writer for the opportunity to submit.

That experience shaped my understanding of writing during the 1970s. A rejected story or novel could feel like a judgement on the writer rather than a decision about a particular manuscript. With time, however, I learned that literary rejection can teach patience, precision, independence and endurance. Those lessons stayed with me while I worked on the books that would eventually become Gideon’s Children and An Irish Experience.

The Letterbox Was Part Of The Apprenticeship

In the 1970s, submitting a manuscript meant preparing a physical parcel, typing a covering letter, checking the pages, finding the correct postage and taking the package to the post office. There was no email, online submission form or instant acknowledgement. A writer might wait weeks or months before hearing anything. During that silence, the manuscript seemed to acquire a life of its own.

That delay was difficult, yet it created a useful separation between writing and outcome. Once a manuscript had been posted, I had to return to ordinary life. I could work, read, talk with friends and begin another piece. The waiting period taught me that a writer’s day could not be organised around the moods of an acquisitions editor.

The physical process also made rejection feel final. A returned manuscript came back marked by handling: folded pages, a paperclip, perhaps a stamped envelope with the publisher’s address. Today, an Australian writer may submit from a flat in Melbourne, a terrace in Sydney or a home office in Perth with a few clicks. The convenience is valuable, but the emotional discipline remains the same. A submission must be released rather than continually watched.

Rejection Was Information, Not A Verdict

At first, I read rejection as a statement about my ability. If an editor did not want the story, I assumed the story had failed and that I had failed with it. That interpretation was too simple. Publishers had lists to manage, budgets to protect and readers to reach. A strong manuscript could be unsuitable for a particular list, arrive at the wrong time or compete with a similar book already in preparation.

This distinction changed how I revised. Instead of asking, “Why does nobody understand this?” I began asking what the manuscript was actually doing. Was the opening slow? Were the characters clear? Did the ending earn its emotional weight? Had I written for the reader or merely recorded my own interest? Rejection did not always answer these questions, but it forced me to ask them.

There was also a lesson in the wording of rejection letters. A personal note, however brief, deserved attention. A standard form letter did not necessarily mean the work was worthless. It usually meant the editor could not take the time to explain a decision. Learning to read these signals without inventing hidden meanings saved energy. Writers need judgement, and that includes judging the evidence supplied by a rejection.

The Manuscript Had More Than One Life

A rejected manuscript was not necessarily dead. It might become a shorter story, a chapter in a different book, a private exercise or the starting point for a better idea. In my experience, pages that did not work in one form often contained an image, voice or conflict worth preserving. The task was to separate the living material from the failed structure.

This is especially important with work grounded in memory, place and social experience. A scene may be too static for a novel but revealing in memoir. A personal recollection may need fictional distance before its meaning becomes visible. The border between autobiography and invention can be productive when handled honestly. Rejection encouraged me to move material rather than simply discard it.

The later shape of Gideon’s Children and An Irish Experience belongs to that long process of testing form and purpose. A book does not arrive fully formed because its author has had one excellent idea. It develops through drafts, abandoned approaches, renewed attention and the willingness to carry a subject forward after an early version has failed.

Persistence Needed A Purpose

Persistence is often praised as if continuing were enough. It is not. Repeating the same submission with the same weaknesses is persistence without learning. The useful kind involves returning to the work with sharper eyes. It means deciding whether a rejection reveals a problem in the manuscript or simply a mismatch with a publisher.

During the 1970s, writing also demanded persistence because practical opportunities were limited. A writer might send work to a small number of publishers, literary magazines or newspapers and then face a long interval before another opening appeared. There were fewer digital platforms and fewer ways to reach readers directly. That limitation could be frustrating, but it encouraged a serious relationship with craft.

A disciplined writer had to keep reading. Reading widely showed how other authors managed point of view, dialogue, historical detail and moral complexity. It also made personal ambition more realistic. The aim was not to sound like every successful writer, but to understand the choices that gave their work authority. Rejection became bearable when it sent me back to the page with a specific task.

For Australian writers, the same principle applies across a geographically spread market. A manuscript may travel from Adelaide to a Sydney imprint or from Hobart to a Melbourne editor, yet the distance does not remove the need for revision. Local literary communities, writers’ centres, libraries and festivals can provide useful perspective, but no network can replace the work itself.

The Market Matters, But It Cannot Write The Book

Writers should understand the publishing market without allowing it to dictate every sentence. In Australia, a manuscript enters a relatively small national market linked to international English-language publishing. Books compete for shelf space in independent bookshops, chain stores, libraries and online retailers. A literary work may find committed readers, but discoverability can be difficult, especially when publishers must make cautious decisions about print runs and promotion.

The 1970s taught me that market awareness was practical rather than glamorous. I needed to know which publishers handled particular kinds of work and whether my submission belonged on their lists. Sending a social novel to an unsuitable house was not a courageous act; it was poor preparation. Rejection sometimes reflected my failure to understand the destination.

At the same time, chasing fashion can weaken a book. A writer who changes a serious subject merely because another genre is selling may produce work that feels borrowed. Readers recognise sincerity, even when they do not agree with every artistic decision. The strongest response to market pressure is to know the central reason for writing and then present the work as clearly and professionally as possible.

Legal awareness matters as well. Australian writers should understand that copyright protection arises automatically when an original work is recorded, under the Copyright Act 1968. Registration is not required. Writers dealing with real people should also take care with privacy, defamation and permissions, particularly when memoir or social history includes identifiable individuals. Rejection is painful; a preventable legal dispute is a different kind of lesson.

What Rejection Can Teach Writers Today

The tools have changed, but the emotional pattern has not. A writer in Brisbane can upload a manuscript before breakfast, check a submission portal during a commute and receive a decision on a phone. A writer in Canberra may join an online workshop, while someone in Darwin works around heat, distance and limited access to specialist events. Technology has widened opportunity, but it has also made comparison constant.

The habits that helped in the 1970s remain valuable. Keep a record of submissions. Allow a manuscript to rest before revising it. Read the publisher’s guidelines carefully. Do not send a partial draft when a complete manuscript is requested. Follow Australian spelling and relevant style expectations when appropriate, while remembering that a distinctive voice should not be flattened into generic polish.

• Treat each rejection as evidence about one decision, not a final measure of your talent.
• Revise for a clear reason, such as strengthening structure, pace, character or argument.
• Research a publisher’s list before submitting and explain why the work belongs there.
• Keep writing a new project while earlier work is under consideration.
• Read rejection letters calmly and save useful editorial comments.
• Protect your work by keeping dated drafts and learning the basics of Australian copyright.
• Build genuine relationships through libraries, writers’ groups, festivals and independent bookshops rather than chasing visibility alone.

The most important lesson is to keep a rejected manuscript in proportion. It is a piece of work, not a complete identity. A writer can be disappointed and still continue. That combination of honesty and movement is more useful than forced optimism. It accepts the hurt while refusing to let one envelope determine the future.

The years have also taught me that recognition often comes later than expected. A book may find readers through word of mouth, a review, a library collection, a literary discussion or a renewed interest in its subject. The route is rarely direct. What matters is that the work remains available to be encountered.

Rejection changed my relationship with ambition. I still wanted the books to be published and read, but I no longer believed publication was the only proof that the writing mattered. The act of making a truthful, carefully shaped book had value before the contract, before the review and before the bookseller placed it on a shelf.

That understanding allowed me to write about difficult subjects with greater freedom. Literature can examine race, civil rights, belonging, memory and place without offering easy resolutions. A writer who is too afraid of refusal may soften the very material that gives a book its purpose. Rejection taught me to listen, revise and persevere, but it also taught me not to surrender the heart of the work.

The returned envelope was never the whole story. It was one event in a longer record of attempts, revisions, discoveries and renewed effort. For a writer, that record may eventually matter more than the individual decisions along the way. The pages that survive are the pages given another chance.

Explore Howard G. Franklin’s books, excerpts, reviews and interviews on this website, then spend time with Gideon’s Children and An Irish Experience. Their subjects, landscapes and reflections offer an opportunity to see how a writing life can continue through uncertainty, change and the long education of being refused.