Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The Many Flavors of “No”

By Andi Kopek

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I don’t think I’m spilling the beans when I say that a big chunk of a writer’s life is spent being told we’re not the flavor of the day. Rejection isn’t a side dish—it’s the main course of the creative life.

I’ve recently received several rejections on various projects I’m working on—I felt like I’d wandered into a Sunday all-you-can-weep brunch buffet. If misery were my main dish, this would’ve been the most generous buffet ever.

There was a bottomless mimosa of “unfortunately this doesn’t fit our needs,” a half-baked quiche of “not this time,” and a towering rejection waffle bar where every topping was a different shade of “we encourage you to submit again.” And then came a note from the chef: “Your novel is just a word salad.” The cheese cream of encouragement on the expired self-esteem toast was, unfortunately, spread too thin.

Then, it shouldn’t be a surprise, that tears accumulated so rapidly, they flooded not only my eyes but also my throat. Rejection can make it impossible to swallow anything but self-doubt—and even that could become a choking hazard.

What’s the Heimlich maneuver for staying alive through it all? Luckily, the literary survival menu offers a few options:

1. Reframe the Narrative

Rejection, while never pleasant, is best viewed as data for you, not a judgment of you. Most often, it reflects a question of fit rather than a verdict on your worth as a writer or the value of your work. Even the most celebrated authors—those whose names now grace syllabi and prize lists: Toni Morrison, Stephen King, Ursula K. Le Guin, Sylvia Plath, Vladimir Nabokov, William Faulkner, J. K. Rowling, George Orwell, James Baldwin, Octavia Butler, Agatha Christie—were once on the receiving end of countless polite (and impolite) declines: We are sorry, but we are closed. Please come back later. It is important to accept that rejection is not an exception to the writer’s path; it is the path.

2. Improve the Craft

Once you realize that rejection is inevitable, try to use it to your advantage. Rejection can be a golden (or at least charred) opportunity to return to your work with fresh eyes. As a once-famous chef said, moments after his kitchen caught fire while flambéing crêpes Suzette: “There’s always room for improvement.” So go to that room—and improve. Better yet, invite a few trusted friends or mentors to join you. Constructive criticism can serve as sturdy scaffolding for a kitchen renovation worth writing about. Because sometimes, all a story needs is a little open- window feedback and the removal of one very flammable sentence.

3. Refocus on Purpose

If, nevertheless, rejection starts to sting too deeply, like a pinch of salt in a fresh wound, it helps to put back on the counter the most fundamental, basic ingredient—why you began writing in the first place. Hopefully not for applause, algorithms, or acceptance letters—but for truth, for self- expression, for insight, and for the chance to spark change. To make this world a better place. So, at this instance, step away from the publishing hustle, even for a brief moment, and return to writing for yourself. The quiet joy of creation, free from outcome, is still the most reliable form of literary survival. Go back to your kitchen, take a piece of sourdough bread, spread in slow, careful motions I-can’t-believe-it’s-real-butter on it, put slices of your favorite ingredients on top, bring it all to a wooden rocker on your porch, and listen to birds while reflecting on your rejected existence.

4. Protect Your Mental Health

While rocking on the porch, allow yourself to feel the disappointment, as it is a natural response. However, don’t let it spiral into endless rumination. Set emotional boundaries around the sting. Resist the urge to compare your journey to others, especially in the curated chaos of social media. We have a tendency to compare ourselves to others who we think did “better” in our minds. If you have to compare yourself to others, choose someone who did “worse.” But truly, the best thing is not to compare yourself to other oranges. Remember, you are the Golden Delicious! Sometimes the best way to move forward is to stop, eat a dessert, breathe, eat a dessert, and listen to what your writing self needs next. And eat the dessert.

5. Build a Support System

Once you’re full, connect with a writing group or creative community—people who understand that rejection isn’t taboo, but a shared rite of passage. Talk about it openly. Naming the “no” out loud helps to normalize it, to strip it of its sting and secrecy. And don’t wait for a publication to throw a party—celebrate the small wins with others: the finished draft, the brave submission, the day you kept writing despite the doubt. But you know what? Why not celebrate rejection? Post: Dear friends! This Sunday, a potluck at my place. Bring comfort food. Don’t forget napkins and handkerchiefs. We will eat and cry. A lot. Together.

6. Have Fun

Once you gather your friends, your support buddies, have some fun. One amazing and surprisingly cathartic way to reclaim rejection is through blackout poetry—taking a rejection letter and redacting it until only a strange, accidental poem remains. Suddenly, “We regret to inform you” becomes the opening line of a noir love story. You can also gather your favorite rejections into a DIY zine: decorate it, title it something defiant like “Thanks, But No Thanks,” and share it with fellow potluckers. You can also cut the letter (which by itself can be therapeutic) into single words, half-sentences, and indecisive punctuation marks, then rearrange them along with your friends Burroughs-style—giving the scraps new meaning, new logic, and possibly the first interesting thing that letter ever produced.

Lastly, you can write a column about it.

Rejection will likely always be on the menu, but it doesn’t have to be the last course. You can chew it slowly, spit it out, or flambé it into something oddly nourishing. The truth is, if you’re getting rejected, it means you’re in the game. You’re sending your strange little soufflés into the world, hoping one of them lands in the right oven and rises just right, filling the room with the unmistakable aroma of something worth savoring. And that, in itself, is worthy of celebration. So pass the mimosa, taste the quiche, and keep having fun writing. Even if you’re not the flavor of the day, you’re still cooking.

Bon appétit, fellow word-chefs.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

Character as a Haunted House

By Aimee Hardy

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Establishing engaging and relatable characters is one of the most important parts of storytelling. Characters should have compelling backstories, relatable flaws, and fulfilling character arcs, but one of the best tools that I’ve learned about creating characters is to think of them like a haunted house. 

Each house has a facade that everyone sees. This is usually the most complimentary view of the house. Passersby can admire the paint, the sweeping porch, and the manicured lawn. Everything is usually neat and tidy, and all its secrets are safely locked away inside. Even haunted houses look best from the outside. 

Similarly, everyone sees certain aspects of a character. This is the image they present to society. It’s the suit jacket worn for status, the combat boots worn for protection, the high heels worn for seduction. It’s the gruff voice to establish dominance or the motherly coo to show nurturing, the helping hand they give when on the train or the kind words said at the gas station. These are the outward images that we must establish from the very beginning because they show how the character would like to be seen from the outside. 

Friends are allowed access inside the house, however. Acquaintances are invited in and can see the common rooms. Those rooms are still cultivated, yet they are a little more intimate. As acquaintances become friends or loved ones, they are invited further inside the house. They see the dishes that have been piled in the sink, the laundry that is overflowing, or the tub that is in need of a good scrub. In a haunted house, we can see the evidence of ghosts. We can hear strange footsteps, feel cold spots, and see apparitions, but we can’t quite determine what is haunting the house. 

Just as with houses, our characters will reveal more intimate details about themselves (and their own ghosts) as they make bonds with other characters and as we (the reader) get to know them in the story. We can see that they are kind by the way they treat their loved ones but that it hurts when no one says thank you. We can see that they are jealous of an adversary, but we can also see that it’s because they were never given the same opportunities to be great. We can see that they are smart but that they are terrified of losing their top spot. They become nuanced–both kind and resentful, jealous and righteous, smart and insecure. 

Then, there are rooms in this haunted house that are so scary that the main character would not dare to enter. These rooms contain the worst secrets that will not leave us alone, and with characters, these rooms contain their deepest fears. The kind and resentful mother might fear that she isn’t worthy of being loved. The jealous and righteous bully might be afraid of being weak or controlled by others. The smart but insecure scientist might fear they are useless. The main character is haunted by these fears and can’t move on until they confront their ghosts. 

So, when I write stories, I always ask what is haunting my main character. If they are worried that they have no identity, maybe they fill their “rooms” with collections. They might appear to know a lot of things in their search for their identity and might even adopt different identities as they interact with different characters. On the outside, they might overcompensate by wearing elaborate costumes or may even be so insecure that they only wear black. However you design your character, keep in mind that their house is haunted, and that in the end, their ghosts will have to come out. 

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Aimee Hardy is a writer and editor in Birmingham, AL. She is the author of Pocket Full of Teeth (September 2024 Running Wild Press). She has been published in Stonecoast Review, Running Wild Press’ Short Story Anthology, Havik2020, Bluntly Lit Mag, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Lost Pilots Lit and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2020. She has a B.A. and M.A. in English from National University. When she’s not writing or editing, she enjoys going on hikes with her husband and two kids or curling up with a good book and a hot cup of tea. For more of Aimee’s work, please visit www.aimeehardy.com.