“It’s not personal, it’s business.” – Tom Hanks, You’ve Got Mail (or: The Godfather)

For a very long time, I took criticism personally. Not in a way that saw me cry or retreat or collapse in on myself, but in a way that saw me channel my inner (fictional) mob boss and consider any critic an enemy.

I told myself that I’d “show them.” That I’d prove through my work and my life just how wrong they were. I relished being the kind of person who would debate the merits of an opinion face-to-face, or block somebody who’s out of line on Twitter. I’d make sure I had the last word, and fuel my work with the idea that productivity would be my critic’s downfall. To combat hurt feelings or a tumultuous afternoon by sitting down to make a deadline isn’t a bad thing. But to take professional criticism as an insult is.

When I first started writing (back in 2009 – hold onto your hats), I wore my professional heart on my sleeve. As far as I was concerned, not only were editors’ criticisms my gospel, they were personal attacks on me and my writing. If an idea was rejected or a piece needed an overhaul, I considered it a reflection of how I had failed. Emails with edits were met with butterflies in my stomach and editors’ notes were just proof of how bad at my job I was.

Rejection was another beast entirely. While I considered edits as proof that my writing career was a fluke at best, I saw rejection as affirmation that I didn’t belong in the industry at all. Of course my ideas weren’t accepted (I thought, quite dramatically) – they weren’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough. And by refusing to acknowledge a pitch or accept it for publication, editors were being kind enough to let me know. My pitches and my personality were so intertwined that if someone wasn’t into what I wanted to say, I figured they weren’t into me.