Twenty-One Years of No

In 2005, I wrote my first screenplay. Like most writers, I believed that if I worked hard enough, improved enough, and refused to quit, eventually someone would say yes. I imagined a straight line between effort and opportunity. What I didn't understand then was that creative careers rarely move in straight lines, and sometimes the distance between belief and validation is measured not in months or years, but in decades.

Over the past twenty-one years, I have collected more rejections than I could ever count. Screenplays, stories, my novel, query letters, production companies, literary agents, contests, fellowships, you name it. Hundreds upon hundreds of emails have arrived carrying essentially the same message. Sometimes it was a form of rejection. Sometimes it was silence. Sometimes it was a polite version of "this isn't right for us." Other times it was, "I didn't connect with the writing."

People often say not to take rejection personally, and intellectually, I understand that. I understand that agents and producers are busy, that publishing is subjective, that one person's favorite book is another person's pass. But understanding something and feeling it are two very different things. When you've spent years pouring yourself into creative work, rejection has a way of finding the soft spots. It can make you question your talent, your judgment, your instincts, and occasionally your sanity.

There have been nights when I wanted to scream. Nights when I wanted to punch a wall. Nights when I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I had somehow spent years chasing a dream that was never going to materialize. There were stretches when I walked away from writing altogether, convinced that I was finished, only to find myself drifting back weeks or months later because stories don't leave writers alone.

If you're a writer, you probably know exactly what I mean. The ideas keep coming. The characters keep talking. Scenes appear while you're driving, showering, mowing the lawn, or trying to fall asleep. No matter how many times the world tells you no, there is always a voice somewhere in the distance whispering, "What if?"

Then came Misty Rivers.

I didn't write it because I thought it would become a bestseller. I didn't write it because I thought it would attract agents or become a movie. I wrote it because I loved the story. I loved Misty and Bobby. I loved Gamba and Ginny, and I obviously loved Roscoe. I loved the themes of resilience, friendship, sacrifice, and the complicated ways people become family. More than anything, I wanted to spend time with these characters and see where they led me.

When I finally published the book, my expectations were modest. I hoped a few people might enjoy it. Maybe some friends and family would read it. Maybe a handful of strangers would discover it. What happened instead caught me completely off guard. Readers began recommending it to one another. Reviews appeared. Libraries added it to their shelves. Book clubs reached out. Messages arrived from people telling me how much the story meant to them and asking when the sequel would be available.

As I write this, Misty Rivers has sold almost 3,000 copies and continues to grow through word of mouth and simple advertising. I am grateful for every single reader.

And yet, if I'm being honest, success has created its own strange emotional conflict.

The rejection letters haven't stopped.

Even now, after all these years, they still arrive. Sometimes they're thoughtful. Sometimes they're brief. Sometimes they're a little more than a polite no. And every so often, I find myself staring at the screen and thinking something I probably shouldn't think:

How can they not see what these readers see?

How can they not fall in love with Misty the way thousands of readers have?

I know the answer, of course. Art has always been subjective. One person can encounter a story and feel absolutely nothing, while another can carry it around for years. Agents are not readers. Producers are not readers. Editors are not readers. They're professionals making decisions based on countless factors, many of which have nothing to do with the quality of the work itself.

Still, after twenty-one years, there are moments when frustration gets the better of me.

Then I remember something important.

A rejection is not proof that a story has no value. It is not proof that the work failed. It is not proof that I should have quit years ago. It is simply one person's opinion at one moment in time.

The real proof lives elsewhere. It lives in the reviews, the emails, the book clubs, the conversations, and the readers who tell me they laughed, cried, or stayed up far too late turning pages. It lives in the people waiting for Book Two. It lives in the simple fact that these characters have found a place in the hearts of people I have never met.

For a long time, I thought success would arrive as a phone call from an agent or a producer. I thought someone in the industry would eventually open a door and tell me I belonged. Maybe that will still happen someday. I certainly hope it does. I would love to see Misty Rivers find representation. I would love to see it adapted for film. I would love to continue growing as a writer and storyteller.

But somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened. While I was waiting for someone in the industry to believe in my work, readers did.

After twenty-one years of hearing no, that means more than I ever imagined it would.

So I'll keep writing. I'll keep querying. I'll keep chasing the next story. The rejection letters will come, just as they always have. Some days they'll sting more than others. But eventually I'll sit back down at the keyboard, because that's what writers do.

We keep going.