Life lessons from creatives on navigating disappointments

Nobody gets everything they want, but the amount of rejection artists face on a regular basis can be downright staggering.

Musicians get turned down for gigs, or their songs fail to connect with listeners. Actors are declined parts that they feel are perfect for them. And writers are told that the work they submitted to a literary journal or agent will not be published.

The barrage of “nos” could be enough to make a person want to give up the pursuit of what they love — and yet, following the advice of the late, great vocalist Aaliyah, creatives dust themselves off and try again. And in certain ways, they can’t help but persevere.

“Part of the reason that I bounce back is just because I like doing this, and the allure keeps drawing you in,” says Asheville-based stage and screen actor Glenna Grant.

“Every time there’s a really bad rejection, you’re like, ‘Oh my God. What am I doing this for? This sucks. This is a dumb job.’ But [later] you forget about how painful that was because you go, ‘Ooh, this [part] looks like fun!’ And then you go out for it and book something, and you’re like, ‘This is awesome. I should do this all the time.’”

Xpress spoke with Grant, other local artists and a mental health professional to gain insights into how they navigate various forms of rejection — and what folks who may not think of themselves as creatives can learn from their resilience.

The thick-skin society

While the joys of success make disappointments easier to stomach, getting to the point where one accepts rejection as part of the process takes time.

“In some ways, it’s better to get rejected a lot earlier on because you get tougher,” Grant says. “It’s harder to do really well for a while and then strike out a bunch in a row. Because then you’re like, ‘Wait, what?’”

Swannanoa-based poet Mike Conner, also a former actor, was already accustomed to the highs and lows of auditions and for the past four years has experienced the publishing industry’s versions of acceptance and rejection. The more he writes and submits to various journals, the more he’s told that a poem is “not a good fit.” But overall, he prefers the literary submission procedure to the theatrical one.

“There’s a degree of separation,” Conner says. “Even though it’s your words and your thoughts, it’s a document, and you’re sending it out. [The editor doesn’t] have to ever see your face if they don’t want to. You don’t have to stand in front of them and physically emote, then be told, ‘No,’ and be like, ‘What’s wrong with me?’”

Asheville-based singer-songwriters Melissa Hyman and Ryan Furstenberg, a husband-and-wife duo who perform as The Moon and You, face rejection in the form of being denied booking opportunities and, in Furstenberg’s words, “when people don’t like the cut of your jib, musically speaking.”

After 20-plus years of performing, Furstenberg has developed “a strong sense of musical identity reinforced by the approval of audience members [he’s] encountered all over the world.” But he didn’t always have such a sturdy foundation. “When I was younger, rejection would get to me more. But after much rejection, you learn resilience. It’s helpful to remember art is subjective.”

In addition to the steady string of “nos” that independent musicians hear, Hyman notes that female-fronted acts have an even higher barrier to entry. And when women do earn opportunities, they face other forms of dismissal.

“We are often skipped over when it’s our turn to lead in a jam or when solos are being passed around onstage — I think because it’s assumed we aren’t able to shred,” she says. “Our ideas are often unheard unless repeated by a man, just as in other collaborative workplace situations. Our expertise and experience are not always noticed or respected until after they’ve been proven many times over, while a man’s are usually presumed until proven otherwise.”

Hyman continues, “For me, it’s been more of an accumulation of similar experiences than any specific instances that have given me trouble. Death by a thousand cuts. But, of course, you don’t die — you work to thicken your skin.”

Learning to balance confidence and humility has helped her build up those calluses. Hyman has sought to know herself the best she can while also striving to continually make better art, all while being open to feedback and willing — even eager — to learn from difficult experiences.

“Work on your feedback filter,” Hyman recommends. “Often the messages of rejection you receive have little to do with who you are as a person or with the quality of your work. Perhaps just as often, they contain specific and useful information that can help you improve your work. Learn to tell the difference.”

Inner workings

Asheville-based therapist Lilian Childress focuses a significant amount of her work on how people relate to their creative spirit and helps her clients better understand what happens inside when they’re rejected.

Childress believes that everyone has “that drive to take something that is inside and bring it out,” even if it’s not what would traditionally be considered art. She draws much of her clinical approach from scholar Michael Meade, whose work centers on the concept of “genius” — an inner creative spirit that can take the form of anything from organizing or listening exceptionally well to writing stories or making songs.

“You don’t get to decide whether it’s there or not. It’s an aspect of the psyche that’s unwounded — it just simply is,” Childress says. “In my understanding and my work with people, [genius] doesn’t care whether you get accepted or rejected or how many people hear your song. It’s a force of nature.”

However, when adults devote time to being with their inner genius and the resulting song, poem or performance is not accepted by others, Childress says the rejection can activate a childhood wound, often stemming from sharing creative work with a parent and being dismissed or not seen.

Various other internal forces then come into play as the psyche tries to achieve homeostasis and wholeness, such as a perfectionist side that hammers home what the person should have done, in hopes that success will occur in the future, or a manager side that relies on logic to produce better results next time. A protector side may push people away from time with their genius so that they don’t experience that degree of heartbreak again, or a problem-solver side may push dopamine hits to soothe the wound, leading to a range of addictions.

Childress adds that operating in a capitalist society, without government support of artists, places additional financial demands on the carefree genius and results in further complications.

Over time, she can assist her clients in reconditioning neural networks so that they can have compassion and tenderness for the wounded inner child and can therefore handle rejection in a healthier manner. She finds her work as a facilitator “fascinating.”

Echoing Grant’s point about being continuously drawn back into one’s creative pursuit for the fun of it, Childress additionally notes that happiness plays a huge role in artists’ grit and perseverance and that there’s a flip side to the wounded inner child.

“There’s also the child that’s exuberant — that’s just in bliss doing a thing, playing with Legos, building and making and imagining,” Childress says. “And if someone has a connection to that part of themselves, if they can access that, that’s the part that does the making, and it does it because it’s enjoyable.”

The path forward

While therapy and inner work can prove key to overcoming disappointment, being around truly empathetic peers is likewise important.

“In the community of acting, everyone knows what it’s like [to get rejected],” Grant says. “But everyone’s got your back. And you can practice and copy them. You see how they take it and then you go, ‘That seemed to work well for them. I’ll do that.’”

Conner credits much of his commitment to writing to Black Mountain’s Dark City Poets Society and its co-founder Clint Bowman. The encouragement, industry insights and support he receives from his fellow poets have proved invaluable, as have critiques and feedback on his poems that give Conner what he calls “a little bit of an extra barrier” against the inevitable rejection from publishers. And Hyman stresses that a similar camaraderie in music is key to helping her and Furstenberg weather the storms.

“The mutuality of it — taking turns helping one another process frustrating, confusing and/or hurtful interactions with colleagues and peers — is extra-strengthening,” she says. “You begin to feel wiser and more capable. Then each new experience affects you a bit less.”

Grant further extols the virtues of psychological flexibility and being open to unexpected ways of pursuing one’s art other than a single full-time job. Like many artists, her professional journey wound up being a patchwork — in her case a combination of directing, teaching and vocal performance.

“I’m not doing exactly what high school Glenna said of being ‘a real actor’ — but I am,” Grant says. “I am doing exactly what I said I’d do. And it also looks very different from what I thought it was going to.”

But as long as the love for one’s art is the reason for pursuing it, Furstenberg is confident that good things will come to those who are persistent and resilient.

“Nothing is owed us,” he says. “And everything is there for the taking if we work hard and don’t give up.”