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I'm scared of a lot of things, ranging from heights to piranhas, but one of the things that scares me the most is this: rejection.


And I've had plenty of it, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now. I've had my share of breakups. I've sent my share of essays off to magazines, only to get the "this is not right for our readers" response. And, of course, there was the David Sedaris brush off.


Yes, the very David who I love to read. Yes, the very David who I thought I knew, because, you know, I've read all of his books. That David. You see, in February I tried to get my memoir in front of him for a possible blurb. I sent it to his New York literary agent along with a shoehorn, because David had written in his most recent book that he'd always wanted a shoehorn. The one I sent was solid brass. It was an antique.


He should have loved me forever, don't you think?


He didn't. He didn't even get a chance to know about me or the shoehorn.


The entire package---shoehorn and all---came back two days later, with a note that said, "Mr. Sedaris gets frequent blurb requests even from established writers and editors, but he is usually so busy writing his own work and preparing for his frequent book tours that he is unable to provide them. Sorry not to have better news."


I was crushed. Truth be told? I cried.


That all went down February 24th. I know this because I saved the damn rejection letter. I don't know why I saved it. I just did.


That damn letter was almost the end of me. It made me even more scared of rejection than I'd ever been before. I had a short list of other best-selling authors I wanted to approach for blurbs, including Wayne Dyer (Your Erroneous Zones) and Pat Love (Hot Monogamy). I kept writing their names on my to-do list. I kept not doing it.


Oh, I had all sorts of reasons for not pursuing the matter, some of which were quite valid. I was busy. I was still tinkering with the manuscript. They were just going to say no anyway.


Yesterday, however, my to-do list was pretty short. I finished everything on it by 2 p.m., everything except "contact Wayne Dyer and Pat Love for possible blurbs."


I took a deep breath. I told myself, "Look, they are just going to say no, but you need to do this. You need to try. Otherwise you'll always wonder, ‘What if I'd tried? What if they'd agreed?'"


I started with Wayne. I picked up the phone, took a very deep breath, exhaled, and dialed the number for his publicist. She answered her phone. I hadn't expected that. I'd expected voice mail. I stuttered a bit, introducing myself and saying, "Did I catch you in the middle of something?"


She curtly said, "I have one minute."


I said I was trying to get in touch with Wayne for a blurb. She cut me off, saying that she fields such requests, that at least one request comes in every day, and that Wayne just doesn't blurb. He doesn't have the time.


I started talking fast. I said that I totally understood. Even if he couldn't be bothered to read my request, I just had to try. I just wanted to see. I had to know. I said I had interviewed him in person years before (true) and that he'd made a huge impression on me (also true). I admitted that I'd screwed up the story (still true), quoting him as the author of Your Erogenous Zones instead of Your Erroneous Zones. I'd called him, and he'd laughed it off.


"He would enjoy hearing that story," she said. "Email me your request. I'll print it out and make sure he gets it."


So I did. I emailed the letter that I'd written about a month before, the one that I'd fine-tuned and edited and slaved over, the one I'd saved to my desktop in a file called "Cover letter Wayne Dyer." It had taunted me nearly every day whenever I'd turned on my computer, saying, "Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!"


About an hour later, she emailed back, telling me, "Your story caught my attention. I think you have something here. I look forward to reading the finished copy and seeing it in bookstores. I'll get this off to Wayne this week."


I almost fell off my chair.


Then I called Pat Love. I got her voice mail.


A few hours later, I had a message. It was from Pat Love. She said she'd love to read my book. She gave me her address and email.


I cried, this time tears of joy.


Lessons Learned


Imagine the worst-case scenario. People will tell you to think positive, but this rarely works for me. When I think positive, my mind conjures up all sorts of crazy fantasies. For instance, when I thought positive about David Sedaris, I saw him loving my book, becoming my best friend, and vacationing with me in Fiji. Seriously. I really set myself up for a fall, you know? By telling myself, "They are just going to say no," I wasn't necessarily talking myself out of trying. I was simply saying to myself, "Self: the worst thing that can possibly happen here is that they will say no. Is that the end of the world? No, it's not." In other words, fear of rejection is worse than the rejection itself.


Know the Law of No.  Any salesman who cold calls will tell you that there is no such thing as a 100 percent Yes Rate. People will turn you down at least half of the time, if not more, no matter how great you are or how wonderful your request. If you can learn to expect a certain amount of rejection, you'll be able to find the persistence needed to keep trying and trying until you eventually get to, "Yes."


Take a deep breath, let it out and just do it. Face the fear. Tell yourself, "I cannot do another thing, not even go to the bathroom, until I do this. I must do this now. NOW. Got that? NOW!! Really. Right NOW!!!"


Face your fear over the phone or in person. Don't wimp out and use email. Although it might be easier to make a request over email, it's also easier for the person on the other end to say, "No." It's harder for someone to turn you down when she or he can hear the sincerity and goodness of your voice.


Don't immediately take no for an answer. Pour out your heart and soul. Tell a story. Entertain this person. Doing so will make the person on the other end of the line see you as a human being, which will make it that much harder to say, "No."


Find a partner in fear. I have a friend who is attempting to do something pretty scary, too. We email our successes to one another, and always at the end of our emails is a question: "What's the next scary thing you are going to do?" It keeps us moving forward.


What scary thing will you do today? Today I'm going to send an essay---the very one that has been rejected by the New York Times, More, and Vogue---off to Psychology Today. I think you should do something scary, too. After all, the worst thing they can do is say, "No." But they just might say, "Yes."

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