thin letters

A former film prof of mine used to call rejection letters "thin" letters. When your application (for a grant, a festival, a contest, etc.) is successful, you get a thick letter in the mail: an envelope containing your acceptance letter, along with forms to fill out, and sometimes even a check. But when you are unsuccessful, the envelope contains only one soul-crushing piece of paper: an impersonal form letter "regretting to inform you" of the fact that you've been rejected. (My prof actually made a hand-processed, 16mm short film called The Thin Letter.)

After what may often be three or four months of waiting and hoping, thin letters can be devastating. It takes a while for the news to sink in; for the first day or so you may find yourself drifting back into that habitual state of anticipation, only to remember that it's all over. I am just coming out of that phase for the third time this month. No, I am not bitter--one of my thin letters came with helpful, encouraging comments and, after all, I have received my share of thick letters--but the repetitive cycle of application/anticipation/rejection does get old at a certain point.

However, as the cliché goes, you can't win them all. Rejection is a part of life, and soldiering on becomes easier the more you do it. So, my response to the thin letters was to declare, "I'll show them, I'll show them all!" and send out yet another application, once again crossing my fingers. (You may as well enjoy the anticipation--after all, you never know....)