My Local Paper Rejected This Essay

A fun exploration of honesty, self-indulgence, embarrassment & growth

This is the first time this essay has seen the light of day. Typically, I share the columns that appear in my hometown paper; but this week, there was no column from me — not because I didn’t write one, but because it was rejected.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

You may ask yourselves, “what on Earth did you say to get a column rejected from your hometown paper?” possibly followed by, “why on Earth would you still post it?” We’ll get to all of that but first, allow me to flatten out the crumpled column in question for your consideration:

The 90-Minute Column

I’m going to call this the 90-minute column and that’s because I have approximately 90 minutes to write it before my next meeting which will lead to another meeting and a few other calendar items before I have to embark on a two-hour drive — all conditions that are not exactly ideal for typing on a laptop computer. I haven’t quite gotten a handle yet on “scheduling” my writing, especially while acclimating to a new job. I’ve been squeezing it in here and there. I also haven’t figured out how to “schedule” exercise or whatever “me time” is — but I do understand that people who write books on productivity that then become podcasts on productivity will tell you adopting habits such as these are vital if you really want to successfully get anything done.

Here is something I have learned about myself: I am comforted by knowing what’s going to happen in my life so I can be properly prepared, but I hate schedules. There’s already so much going on all the time. Do I really have to look at it all?

It’s not interesting or even unusual to be busy. Everyone is and we all have our individual reasons and definitions of what that is. We also have our own ways of managing tasks and time and sanity. My strategy has always been roughly the same: I take the days as they come and work on a deadline.

While I wasn’t necessarily the kid doing book reports the night before they were due, I wasn’t far off. If I ever had any idea I would end up in the news business, I would say it was good training; tight deadlines are part of the profession, after all. But I didn’t have a clue I would be a journalist and so I have to chalk up some of my behavior to good old-fashioned procrastination. As time has gone on, I’ve also become increasing invested in not being over-scheduled. If I actually want to  enjoy my life, I know I sometimes have to say, “no” and try not to feel guilty about it.

About 60 minutes left and I’ve promised myself the column has to be done by then and yes, I realize it doesn’t seem like I got very far in the first 30 — but that’s how it goes for me. I write, I read, I delete, I edit, I start over and I can tend to get completely lost in the whole process.

A full hour and a half may seem like a lot of time maybe even a luxurious amount of time to devote to anything, but unlike the time spent running on a treadmill — which seems to last forever — writing time, for me, is more on par with weekend time or lunch with my very favorite people: it flies by. I pull the thread of an idea and, before I know it, I’m sucked in — tapping away and taking dictation from the voices in my head. They may take me one direction and then another and then we stop and backtrack and go again. Before I know it, an hour or more has passed. 

Like anything, the part that takes the most time is the getting started. 

“I’ll get to it,” I tell myself. “I’ll get up early tomorrow, I’ll start it after work.” All things we tell ourselves all the time.

Next thing I know the clock is ticking in a lively coffee shop-away-from-home I’ve adopted as my own when I’m working in Jamestown. A man who looks every bit like Santa Claus is using a giant squeegee to clean the cafe’s windows. I’m halfway through an iced lavender latte hoping it will help lift the fog from a long day and late night working at a comedy show. I have taken what I realize is my first deep breath in at least 24 hours.

And now… my pals, I have to go.

# # #

That was it. That’s the column. Was it my favorite? Not by a long shot and that is me being exceedingly polite to myself; but part of committing to writing a weekly column was committing to writing it honestly, sharing what was going on, telling the truth — whatever it is.

The reasons given to not run it were both practical and critical. First, there was, apparently, an issue of space, which is certainly understandable. I’m no stranger to being cut for time and it’s basically the same thing.

Space wasn’t the only reason given for axing the column, though. The email went on to explain it was “too self-serving.”

“Maybe okay for your other venues,” the editor offered, “but I’m gonna pass on this one.”

My response? “Great! Thanks for letting me know.”

I’m sure it sounded like I didn’t understand what I was reading.

If you ask me, a term like “self-serving” falls less in the category of “constructive criticism” and more under the heading of “grim little dig.” Not that it matters. However you view the remark, it wedged its pointy self right in my throat before burrowing directly into my brain.

I turned the comment over in my head and felt equal parts embarrassed and gross and insulted and confused. (There I go again…making it about me.) I thought about my other columns — all, based on my personal experience, thoughts, observations. By this current definition, they were all “self-serving.”

Woof.

The really interesting part of all of this is that just last weekend someone reached out to thank me for my writing — saying they find the stories about my various experiences relatable and thought-provoking. They said they help them feel less alone. It felt great to hear that and sparked an even more interesting conversation about art and access to art and encouraging more people to embrace the joy of artistic pursuits without the burden of mastery.

Looking back, the conversation makes me feel like a moron.

The whole situation reminds me of a scene from one of my favorite movies, Singles. The 1992 romantic comedy is set in Seattle at the height of grunge and follows the lives and romances of a group of friends.

In one scene, a civil engineer named Steve is grappling with having been fired. Standing in the middle of his apartment in his bathrobe surrounded by pizza boxes and beer cans he laments to his friend and neighbor Janet, “I went with my instincts and I was wrong. Wrong: the opposite of right.”

This is exactly how I feel about what happened with this column.

Importantly, all kinds of things can be true at once and often are. It all comes with the territory of existing. I could frame it all as positive redirection, a valuable learning experience and on and on, but it doesn’t serve anyone to turn on the positivity when there’s a real opportunity to stay on the theme of brutal honesty.

Rejection, in all its forms, sucks. Feeling uncomfortable in your own self and your own work — sucks. Giving a piece of yourself only to have it thrown back at you — sucks. Feeling pressured to gracefully manage any and all commentary for fear of being accused of being “thin-skinned” — sucks. It all sucks and so does stoically pretending it does not.

The good news is: it’s over. Tomorrow’s another day. We live to write again. Nobody died, nobody actually cares.

Nobody, hilariously enough, but me.

This column is a Kate Welshofer Was Here Substack Exclusive made from all recycled materials by Kate Welshofer Productions, a division of Big Yikes Inc. Thank you for reading.