On Rejection

And the joy of the occasional, life changing win.

Good afternoon, gentle readers, from a fast moving train to Leeds!

not pictured: the cancelled train before this one, the tens of people frustrated and standing in the aisles…

The sky is robin egg blue today, the gift of June arriving right on time. I am wearing a single layer, and while I have taken a jacket for my trip, I am hoping not to use it.

What is taking me to Leeds, you might be wondering? Before I tell you that, let me tell you a little about my relationship with rejection.

In 2018, a dear friend of mine was visiting me in London. They were a Provost Scholar at Oxford University, working on their next novel and honing their craft to the sharp, incisive point I so admire. This friend, in my mind, was a ‘real’ writer - they were at a ‘fancy’ university working on their book, their writing voice was literary and critically acclaimed, they had traveled to exotic locations around the globe as an artist, exploring and creating and being inspired.

When they told me about a recent trip to Antarctica, I was floored. Not envious, more like the feeling of watching a gymnast’s Olympic routine and being awed by the talent and skill, wishing it was you dancing in the air, but knowing that really, that was mere fantasy.

I said to my friend as such. They refuted this characterisation, without question.

‘You just have to apply,’ they said.

I assured them, I was not the kind of writer that would be eligible for such cool, writerly activities. They made it their mission to disabuse me of my insecurity.

Put your hat in the ring.

Be brave, be honest, be bold!

What’s the worst that could happen?

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Long time readers may know that I started this Substack in early 2021, while I was commencing my first ever writer’s residency in Paris.

That was in fact, the residency my friend encouraged me to apply for, all those years earlier. The Cité residency was one of the five or six I submitted to that year, and the only successful application. Turns out, I only needed one for my entire world view to be turned on its head. The moment I read the email informing me of my acceptance into the program - mere seconds passed between my processing the information and my running to the bathroom to chuck my guts up (though it might have been the cheap market oysters I’d just had, and not the news). Either way, I have Dylin Hardcastle to thank for the encouragement and peer-mentorship all those years ago for the development of my career today. Without Hardcastle, I don’t think I would have ever had the courage.

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Of course, applying for opportunities means mostly receiving rejections, and I have had to learn how to become friends with the sensation of being told, no.

Rejection is a necessary part of being in the game. ‘If you’re not failing, you’re not pushing boundaries,’ said Nobel Laureate Elizabeth Blackburn, and while I don’t believe rejection is failure, there is wisdom in that sentiment. Rejection hurts, for sure. In the artistic world, where your work is so often personal, rejection of the work can feel like rejection of the self. But it isn’t. It is part of the iterative nature of building a career in this precarious, subjective, brutual world.

I’ve submitted about 150 applications to residencies and schemes and writers conferences over the past three years. I have been accepted into eight - a success rate of about 1 in 20. It’s a humbling statistic, but at some level, I’ve accepted it’s a numbers game. If I apply to enough places and keep applying, something will stick. The judges change - you can get in one year and not another, you can have a writing sample that works for some and not for many more. With some places receiving thousands of applications every year, sometimes the difference can be as simple as the mood of the judge when they read your piece. Were they tired and hungry, or fresh and enthused? Were you their first sample, or their fiftieth? Constant rejection in the arts, I’ve come to accept, is often not about you.

That all being said…

Standing on a bleak London street on a cold mid-January morning six months ago, I answered the phone to an unknown number. The kind voice on the other end of the line informed me that I had been selected as the ITV Original Voices writer for Emmerdale.

I literally screamed.

Emmerdale, for those who don’t know, is one of the UK’s longest running soaps. It’s ‘Drama in the Dales’, a daily soap set in a fictional village in the North of England, watched by millions of people across the nation. Getting a writing gig on a soap is an almost impossible challenge, but the Original Voices scheme acts like a sort of apprenticeship, a once in a lifetime opportunity to get your toe in the door, work in a fast-moving, rigorous production environment, develop and deploy the kinds of skills that should hold you in good stead for a career in screenwriting.

So yes, when I got the call, I genuinely, without hyperbole, yelled in pure joy (and quite a bit of relief). I’d never had the urge to cry out at a piece of news before, but hey. Not every day you get career-defining news.

Almost 1000 people applied for the scheme. Four were selected, after a multistage application process including attending a mock story-conference day in Manchester and writing a trial script of the show based on storylines both provided and invented by ourselves. I had not held my breath for this chance - it’s a highly sought after experience, and I’d not made it past the first round on the numerous other times I’d applied for the BBC writers room, Channel 4 writing scheme, Pillars Fellowship, etc. But hey. I threw my hijab into the ring, and someone’s prayers were answered. Alhamdulilah.

I’m excited. I’m nervous. I’m wondering what the next three months has in store, inshallah. There may come a week in six months when I encourage you to check out a particular episode, because if the team like my writing, there’s a non-zero chance my episode will be aired (inshallah). I’m hoping it will be fun, I’m hoping I will learn a ton. Like most tv writers in the English language scene, I’m currently running on hope, and trusting that it will all be worth it. Inshallah.

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Let me know if you have any questions on this theme, folks! I apologise for the lack of recommendations today. The internet on this train, like a backpack made of balsa wood, is unable to withstand much use. Maybe I’ll do a mid-week drop, if you’re keen?

Right. I’m at Newark Northgate now, only an hour or so to go. The stink of someone’s burp is thick in the air, but we’re all pretending not to notice. This is England, after all.

Wish me luck…!

Best,

Yassmin