This is the second part of a series of posts concerning what I’ve learned thus far writing short stories. I am by no means an authority — just an amateur. But I do have a certificate from the school of hard knocks, so perhaps reading this and the prior piece is worth your while.

As I said before, my time writing novels I didn’t submit anywhere was akin to the Kriegsmarine’s “Happy Time” during World War II: the only meaningful resistance came from oneself. I was the one calling the shots. I set the deadlines. I set the pace.

When I went into short stories, though, everything changed. I expected some rejections, but I never expected as many as I got.

My very first rejection letter was actually the most encouraging one I got for some time: Stanley Schmidt of Analog sent me a rejection on the first short story I ever wrote. The top part of the letter was a form rejection, but the bottom part contained a gem: “I rather like your style of writing and suggest that you try us again.”

I was on cloud twelve. I was on the way — I just knew it. Looking back, I realized the irony in my optimism: I still had a very, very long way to go before my first sale. I mean, I didn’t even send the thing using proper manuscript format (and if this is your first time seeing that term, I beg you to check the “For Writers” link on my site’s menu bar).

About fifty rejections or so later, I gave up. I’m not kidding. I didn’t write for a year. I seriously wondered if I had wasted my time ever writing in the first place. It didn’t occur to me until I started writing again — determined, this time — that I should read every scrap of information I could find on the subject of pleasing editors. I reasoned that, knowing my fiction was at least somewhat decent, that I had to be screwing up in other areas.

Guidelines were helpful, and various books and online resources taught me a lot. But the most important thing I did was extend my sense of customer service ethics to the people I was selling too. I did everything I could to make editors happy. I focused on pleasing my customers: editors and writers. This cemented in my skull humility and observation. I started to feel like a professional. Keeping a customer service perspective is so utterly important, in my opinion.

“Editor” is a dirty word. Writers are bad these days about not paying it proper respect. To show what I think it really means, I’ll use a substitute for the term from this point forward in this post.

I started following Carolyn See’s excellent advice to write thank-you notes to rejecting customers. I don’t do this to everybody, but when a customer leaves personal feedback, I always try to shoot back a quick “thank you”.

As a writer, doing market research is a part of my job, as it is with any small business. I have to know my customers. When a customer gives feedback, it’s solid gold. It’s feedback from the heart of my customer base. The least I can do is shoot back a thank-you.

No matter how much feedback can sting, no matter how much I want to debate it, or argue with it, etc, I don’t. First, customers are always right when it comes to the needs of their magazines. Sure, subjectivism is alive and well — virtually all my sold stories were rejected elsewhere first — but if a customer tells me a story isn’t fitted for their magazine, I take them at face value. Second, people calling it as they see it are seldom completely wrong.

I’m not saying I trust customers implicitly. They’re human, and no one is always right. What I’m saying is, they always get the benefit of the doubt. I always listen to these customers, even if I don’t necessarily agree with what they’re saying, because brutal honesty provides truth. If you keep your pan in the river, you’ll eventually find gold no matter how much mica you wade through first.

What would they think if I shot back a snarky reply to feedback I found ridiculous? It would be like a retail sales associate telling me off for not liking a particular model of vacuum cleaner. Would I ever be motivated to buy from that business again?

When it comes to submitting, customer service ethics strike again. If a customer says they’re checking out stories under 5,000 words, I don’t send them one with 6,000, 5,100, or whatever, no matter how tempted I am, no matter how suited the fiction is otherwise. If they want it in Arial Font, they get Arial. If they like it pasted inline as message body text, I bite the bullet and fight with my mail client to make it happen.

In regards to that, I’ve learned over the years to be wary of customers claiming “if it exceeds our preferences, we might still take it if its phenomenal”. At least in my experience, I’ve learned this translates to “if you slept with lady luck last night and she’s having your kids.” I simply don’t rely on ever exceeding expectations. I always, always take the time to match my work to the market exactly. It’s not worth a shot in the dark to let a story sit in the slush for three months for an even further-reduced chance of getting sold (like it wasn’t challenging enough in the first place). If a story doesn’t match a customer’s “firm” guidelines, I don’t send it on.

I’ve never bought the idea that an editor owes me anything. It would be like a car salesman expecting ever person stepping on the lot to drive away with one of his vehicles. He is realistic. He has no such expectations.

Ironic, then, that our industry is swarming with writers (ironically, some with prior customer-editor experience) who express annoyance directly to a customer about their response time. I could be wrong, but we are salesmen, are we not? Even when we know customers on a first name basis, dropping that pretense is unprofessional.

If a customer does annoy me in response times, or anything else, I don’t fire off a mean e-mail. I never badmouth them or their magazine in public. I like my bridges intact, thank you. What I do is simply stop submitting to them.

After all, I want to be known for my customer service ethic– my professionalism. Because then my other customer base –my readers– will have a better chance of getting to buy themselves.