Acceptance Never Gets Old, Writing Never Gets Easy
Celebrate the fruit of writing, and let the petals fall
That sudden, fleeting whole-body jolt of ‘Yes! You can!’— is what never gets old.
Eight months ago, I had one pretty good week. On April 16, Solstice Literary Magazine emailed to inform me that they’d accepted my personal essay “Allegiance” for publication sometime in the future. A few days later the Los Angeles Times published my review of Rachel Khong’s Real Americans— my first book review for the Times. At other points in my life, I’d have foolishly read these wins as proof that more opportunities and acceptances would soon follow. That week, though, I marveled at my elation.
Acceptance never gets old, I told my close friends, and writing never gets easy. I told myself I’d write a post with that statement as its title when the essay was published.
Some reflections on that Rachel Khong review:
In September, Solstice’s nonfiction editor Jill Johnson sent a contract with the news that “Allegiance” would appear in the Winter issue. I was thrilled. Solstice has been showcasing quality work, with an emphasis on diversity, for 25 years. They’ve published writers I hold in the highest esteem — including Sven Birkerts, Stephen Dunn, Martha Collins, Major Jackson, Richard Hoffman, Diane Glancy, Dzvnia Orlowsky, and Betsy Sholl. What’s more, Jill Johnson herself was working on a memoir about expat life and crossing boundaries— the same themes as “Allegiance.” I felt like I’d found a new literary home.
I’d been submitting essays about my family history to literary magazines for over a dozen years, and Solstice was the first to accept one. They’d given me a much needed boost of confidence. And I did keep an eye open for that winter issue. I really did. Yet somehow, I missed it.
Bothered and bewildered
Not until this week, when Solstice’s January newsletter landed in my inbox with “Allegiance” astonishingly presented as “Featured Content from the Latest Issue,” did I realize this issue had been out for nearly a month. In other words, I didn’t realize until 2025 that an essay I’d sweated over for more than a decade had been published in 2024. The feature announcement was a welcome gift, but it aroused the most peculiar feeling, as if I’d given birth without knowing it.
And that, in turn, made me question what this whole business of publication actually means. How much we writers invest in it. How much we yearn for it. How hard we work to achieve this momentary goal of recognition, validation, and—most tentative of all—connection. (I’m skipping any mention of money because there so seldom is any monetary payment at all, especially in the litmag world.) As if the appearance of our words on a certain page, in certain company, with a certain imprimatur, before a certain audience, will transform our writing identity and career. As if it will make us happier, wiser, better, and more confident people.
I’ve been writing for more than four decades, and even though I know better, part of me still clings to this belief in the power of publication. I want my writing to be accepted! Of course, I do. And publication remains the primary form of acceptance that matters to me.
Yet I hadn’t cared enough to notice when my work was actually published. Was that a sign of neglect, of my own obliviousness, or did it say something more important about the actual importance of publication?
Acceptance never gets old, writing never gets easy.
So very much effort goes into The Work of writing—composing, editing, revising, tearing apart, reconceiving, sharing with test readers, polishing, submitting, getting rejected, rinse and repeat multiple times over—before there’s any realistic chance of acceptance by a literary magazine, agent, or editor. I probably shredded and reconceptualized “Allegiance” a dozen times and submitted at least four versions for notes from my writing groups before sending it to Solstice. No wonder that first notice of acceptance felt magical. Disbelief, ecstasy, shock, relief all overwhelm me every time my work is accepted for publication. That reaction—that sudden, fleeting whole-body jolt of ‘Yes! You can!’— is what never gets old.
But then, always, comes the long wait for publication. I once waited three years between acceptance and publication of a critical essay. Most books take at least 18 months from acceptance to publication. And even when publication comes with the hoopla of press and a media tour, there’s something inevitably anticlimactic about the release date. As when my essay in Solstice appeared last month, the responding silence can be deafening.
So, the lesson of this post acquired a coda:
Acceptance never gets old, writing never gets easy—and publication rarely lives up to your expectations.
Fruit and petals
Then my friend, the poet
sent this poem:The purpose of labor is to learn; when you know it, the labor is over. The apple blossom exists to create fruit; when that comes, the petals fall. ~ Kabir, trans. R. Bly, from #13 of The Kabir Book
Thomas’s gift to the world is a daily curated poem accompanied by one of his gorgeous photographs (I’ve been urging him to share his practice on Substack), and he has an uncanny record of sending precisely the poem that I need on the very day I need it. The Kabir poem arrived this morning, as I was fumbling for this post’s center. And suddenly I realized that I was mistaking the petals for the fruit.
The purpose of labor is to learn. Not to show off. Not to impress. And not to attract attention. While publication is usually one goal, it has never been the primary reason I write. If it were, I’d have quit long ago; the stiff competition of the publishing marketplace would have scared me off.
No, like most serious writers I know, I write because writing allows me to think and make sense of the world, inside and out. Because life presents questions that just won’t quit until I figure out their story. And because the page is the only place where I feel entitled to fully speak my mind and where I can hear my own voice.
The page is also my playground, like canvas is for a painter or the piano for a composer. I can muck around when I write. I can make a mess. I can experiment and fail. And that’s liberating, because it doesn’t matter. We all need a place where we’re free to fail. It’s how we learn. Play doesn’t make writing easy, but it does make it fun. And that sense of fun, of lively engagement and surprise, is what keeps me energized as a writer.
The version of “Allegiance” that Solstice published was itself an experiment, the product of play: after approaching the central idea—that first memories define us—in countless other ways, I’d decided to replay my own first memories through a child’s eye in present tense. The new result pleased me. It surprised and satisfied me as previous drafts hadn’t. And if I’m honest, that self-acceptance was the most important acceptance of all.
The sense of hard-earned satisfaction with our own work is the acceptance that truly never gets old. It’s signaled by our weary, startled surprise at turns of phrase that actually stack up to mean something meaningful. Or the grateful exclamation after a read-through that definitively precludes further tinkering. Our own ‘Yes! You can!’ is the acceptance that finally allows the petals to fall away, so we can send the fruit of our labor into the world. And whatever accolades do or don’t await it, they will never matter more than our own appreciation of all that we have learned.
P.S.
Back in April, while savoring two acceptances in a single week, I warned myself that pouring rain creates the illusion that drought is over; but drought is a writer’s true norm. And so it was. No more big splashes have followed. Instead, I’ve welcomed a drop here, a drop there. Just enough to remind me to keep playing with my sweet words.
SO true, so well said. Happy new year.
Happy New Year, Aimee. Thank you for sharing “Allegiance.” I was transported to another world by a little girl whom I would have been too awkwardly shy to befriend. I appreciate all of the writers you have gathered around yourself. Inspired.