What Does That Rejection Really Mean?

Using my personal experiences to help you in your journey as a writer, and a short story bonus

Feb 04, 2026

Having had two items rejected in a week (a manuscript for a novel that is twice as long as my current publisher will accept and a short story for an anthology), I thought I would pass these thoughts along. (Coincidentally, Flame Tree Publishing posted this article a couple days ago.)

Oh, and I am including the rejected story and would love to hear your thoughts on it, considering that it was written quickly to address my understanding of the anthology’s theme, that it is far too short (no chance to really develop the situation and the characters) in accordance with the anthology’s submission criteria, that I took time out from four works in progress to write the story, and that I wasn’t too comfortable with it to begin with.

And that brings me to…

Why You Get Rejected

First, let’s address why you send something off in the first place. For novels and novellas, it is because you think the publisher is in tune with what you have written, at least if you have done your research. For anthologies, it is because you have written something that seems to fit what they specify for their issue. So being rejected is partly because your piece actually did not fit what they were seeking. The other part, of course, is that your writing didn’t strike a cord, was sloppy, or otherwise didn’t measure up. (Not sure where my story fits here since I got no pertinent feedback.)

Second, more and more publishers and anthology editors want you to be an extension of them, not yourself. (There are exceptions, of course, and I’m not naming anyone here since it is a wide problem, not confined to any particular person or persons.) Same goes for literary agents (more on that in a future article). We writers face enough challenges, such as AI generated text and various tools. Now we face people controlling the publishing (again with some exceptions such as my publisher) who only want to deal with certain genres, ideas, themes, tropes, etc., that they already think are good or that just suit their personal taste. We writers are being squeezed into straitjackets.

Standing Tough Against Rejections

Look at rejections the same way you would a gym workout. Like sit-ups, pull-ups, lifting weights, and aerobics, these rejections toughen you up, inure you to disappointment. Do your research (time consuming and not foolproof), which will in itself toughen you up and may inspire you to incline toward cynicism, to be sure you are sending out to people who will at least be interested in the type of thing you are writing.

And don’t abandon that rejected item. Share it on Substack or your author site, save it for another submission opportunity, put it with other stories you have written and get it published as a book (as was the case with my first two books), but don’t shove it off in a lonely corner.

The Story

I may not be totally happy with this, but I still like it overall. (Just so you know, “Duirdhi” is pronounced “Dweer-dee” and is a name I made up.)

Your comments always welcome.

The Ghost of Duirdhi Bay

“That winter blast continues, folks. Current temperature here in Jake’s Bluff is nine degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of minus twenty. Today’s high is expected to be around twenty-five degrees, and the wind chill will be around five degrees,” announced Babs, the woman who reported the weather every half hour from the local station on the radio in Tony’s bedroom.

The unusually cold weather for Duirdhi Bay on the coast of Washington State had lasted almost two months. Tony knew he had to go out fishing anyway. It was his livelihood. His father had been a fisherman and had taught his son the trade—forced it, actually, since Tony had wanted to play the piano. No, not just play. To be a concert pianist. But his father had snorted at the very idea and said, “What’s music? A man’s gotta eat.” He and Tony had then gone out in his boat The Wave Queen. Tony had given up on the idea of pursuing music, having missed enough school where the music teacher had been trying to help him. And Tony’s mother had died of flu when he was a boy, so he had no support there.

Now Tony was thirty-three and living alone in the small house with its weather beaten wood siding where he had been raised. About a year ago Tony had been too sick to go out with his father, so the older man had gone out alone and never come back. The Wave Queen had been seen bobbing on the light waves over their favorite fishing spot and had been brought to the pier near the small town of Jake’s Bluff.

“The ghost got him,” one man had said, but not to Tony’s face.

He had whispered it to another man as they both watched Tony board the boat and check it over.

Tony had lived alone since then. He had thought about that music teacher who was older now and still gave private lessons in her home. But there were bills to pay. His father had been right. A man’s gotta eat. Tony had to go out fishing again, catch what he could without the game people detecting him exceeding his designated limit, and sell it to his regular cash paying customers in town. It would cover his food and other expenses for a couple months if he was careful.

So cold weather couldn’t be a reason to keep him on shore.

Tony bundled up as always. Cold and water could be a deadly combination this time of year. He had already had a bout of flu this winter. He couldn’t afford another one. He left the small house and trudged through the community to his boat tied up at the pier. The sun hadn’t risen yet. It was the perfect time to go out except for one thing—the ghost of Duirdhi Bay.

“Jake was a card sharp,” Tony’s father had told him one evening after a long and fruitless day out in the bay. “Came here in eighteen ninety-seven, about ten years after the town was founded.”

They had come home exhausted, heated up their usual dinner of beans and hotdogs, and sat at the table, eating and watching the flame of the candle there, stuck in the neck of an empty wine bottle.

“He cheated one too many times,” continued the older man. “They hung him in the center of town, which used to be called Smithville or something equally mundane. They changed the name as sort of a warning to others. His ghost now haunts the waters of the bay.”

“Why there?” Tony had asked. “Why not where he was hanged?”

“He knew how important fishing was to everyone here,” his father had replied. “Besides, the people who strung him up were fishermen, including one of our ancestors.”

A month later, Tony’s father had gone out by himself, never to be seen again.

Now Tony thought about Jake the card sharp and hoped the ghost would stay away from his boat. Tony didn’t want to end up like others from Jake’s Bluff—scared into hysteria, confused so that they ran their boat aground, or falling overboard and drowning as their boats, untended, continued out of the bay to the Pacific Ocean. Several boats had been totally lost. Others now had new owners. None of them were up yet, though. The pier was deserted.

Tony boarded The Wave Queen, started up the engine, backed carefully away from the pier, and turned out toward the chilly waters of Duirdhi Bay. He increased speed and was soon out in what had proven in the past to be the best area for fish. He slowed the boat and eventually stopped. The wind from the north was bitingly cold, and a chunk of ice was floating on the water near the boat’s hull. “Ice in Duirdhi Bay—must be that climate change stuff I keep hearing about,” he thought. “We’re not getting hotter, though. We’re getting colder.”

“Neither,” said a whisper that seemed to float over the water and through the air around Tony.

He looked around in the darkness but could see no one. He prepared the nets and was about to drop them in the water when a form began to rise up from that chunk of ice. The shape was just a blob at first and then took roughly the form of a man.

Tony watched, as frozen in place as that figure.

“Are you Jake the card sharp?” he asked after a moment.

“No,” said the whisper that seemed to be all around him.

“Then what are you?” asked Tony, shivering as much from fright as the cold air.

“Just Jake,” said the whisper.

“But—”

“I wasn’t a card sharp. I never cheated. They lied about me. They were the cheaters. Your ancestor was one of them.”

“Visiting his sin on me?” demanded Tony, feeling his anger rise.

“Not at all,” came that whisper, swirling around his head like a mist as that icy shape seemed to stare at him.

“Then what?” asked Tony.

“An exchange,” replied the whisper. “I’m tired of the cold.”

Tony began pulling up his nets. The icy figure moved nearer. Tony dropped the nets and rushed to the helm. He started the engine and took off as fast as he could go. But the boat didn’t seem to get anywhere. Finally, he stopped. The icy figure appeared in front of the boat.

“You can’t run,” said the whisper. “None of them could run. They tried as you did. It ended badly for them.”

Tony stood frozen again.

“So, what’s this exchange about?” he asked after swallowing hard.

“An exchange,” said the whisper. “You know, a trade—one thing for another.”

“What thing for what thing?”

“My spirit for yours.”

The figure laughed, the whisper sounding as cold as Tony felt. He grew colder and colder, unable to speak or move, his hands still on the boat’s wheel. Then he was hovering over the water, looking at his body in the cabin and feeling icy cold. His body stared back at him from the boat’s helm. Then it waved and smiled as Tony sank beneath the bay, joining others from Jake’s Bluff.

Final Thought

Believe in your work. Don’t let rejections deter you, especially since they often come with no helpful feedback justifying the rejection. Keep on writing. It is the only way to get better.

Best wishes on your writing (and reading).

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