Save your rejections so that later when you are famous you can

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city washed in a thin film of silver. Streetlights shimmered in the wet asphalt, and steam rose from the gutters like ghosts of all the dreams that had been rejected tonight. Inside a small café tucked between two bookstores, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other — a half-empty bottle of wine between them, the air thick with memories, regret, and the faint smell of paper and rain.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes sharp and distant, a faint smirk on his lips. Jeeny sat with her hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee, her brown eyes reflecting both sorrow and hope. On the table between them lay a stack of old letters, edges yellowed, ink faded — rejection letters.

Jeeny: “You kept them all?”
Host: Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried a weight that cut through the silence.

Jack: “Every single one.” He lifted a letter, turning it under the light. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When you’re unknown, people don’t even bother to pretend they care. But one day, you make it big, and suddenly those same people call you a visionary.”

Jeeny: “Meg Cabot said something like that, didn’t she? ‘Save your rejections so that later when you are famous you can show them to people and laugh.’”

Jack: “Exactly. I like the part where you laugh. I guess I’m still waiting for that part to feel funny.”

Host: The wind rattled the windows, and a bus passed outside, its lights flashing across their faces like frames in a silent film.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about laughing at them. Maybe it’s about remembering who you were — who you had to become just to survive the no’s.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But rejection isn’t some sacred test. It’s just the world telling you that you’re not good enough.”

Jeeny: “Or that the world wasn’t ready for you yet.”

Jack: He chuckled, dryly. “Ready? The world’s never ready. It chews up talent, spits out names, and moves on. Van Gogh never sold a painting while he was alive. Kafka died unpublished. That’s not some romantic story — that’s tragedy.”

Host: Raindrops began to gather again on the windowpane, as if echoing his words — slow, deliberate, inevitable.

Jeeny: “But isn’t tragedy the soil where greatness grows? You mentioned Van Gogh — and yet, his pain became light on canvas. He couldn’t laugh at rejection, but his art laughs now, through every sunflower painted by his trembling hands.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re not starving in an attic. Philosophy tastes sweeter when you’re warm.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism tastes bitter even in comfort.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with anger, but with conviction. The lamplight flickered, casting shadows that danced on the walls, like two souls arguing across eternity.

Jack: “You talk about rejection like it’s a teacher. But it’s not. It’s a gatekeeper — one that doesn’t care about how hard you tried. It’s random, cruel. The only reason I kept those letters is to remind myself how stupid it all was.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You kept them because you needed proof that you didn’t give up. Each one says, you tried. That’s worth something.”

Jack: “Trying doesn’t feed you. Success does.”

Jeeny: “But success without rejection is hollow. You only appreciate the light after the darkness.”

Host: A pause fell between them. The music from the old jukebox hummed faintly — an old jazz tune, slow and wistful. Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers grazing one of the letters.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first one?”

Jack: “Yeah.” He smiled faintly. “It was from a magazine editor. He said my writing was ‘uninspired and lacking emotional depth.’”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are. People quote your lines on billboards now.”

Jack: “Yeah. I wish I could show him one.”

Jeeny: “Would you laugh?”

Jack: “No.” He looked down. “I’d thank him.”

Host: The air grew still, heavy with the echo of that quiet confession. Outside, the rain began again, soft and rhythmic, as if applauding something neither of them could see.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s the point. Rejection isn’t your enemy — it’s your uninvited mentor. It cuts, it hurts, but it shapes you.”

Jack: “You sound like a self-help book.”

Jeeny: “No, I sound like someone who’s been rejected too.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, and for a brief moment, Jack’s usual armor faltered. The cynic looked almost human, stripped of his sarcasm.

Jack: “What was your worst one?”

Jeeny: “A scholarship. They said I didn’t have enough ‘original thought.’ I cried for a week. Then I wrote something so wild they couldn’t ignore it. Rejection pushed me where comfort never could.”

Jack: “So, what, pain makes you stronger?”

Jeeny: “No, acceptance makes you soft. Pain makes you real.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke, curling into the dim light, twisting, unresolved.

Jack: “You really think rejection is a gift?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A cruel one, but yes. Look at J.K. Rowling — twelve publishers turned her down. Twelve! Imagine if she’d stopped at eleven. The world would have never met Harry Potter. Rejection didn’t stop her — it sharpened her.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe she just got lucky on the twelfth.”

Jeeny: “Luck favors the ones who stay standing after being knocked down.”

Jack: “And what about the ones who never get back up?”

Jeeny: “They teach us what happens when hope dies.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the café for a single instant — every raindrop, every shadow, every truth laid bare.

Jack: quietly “You really believe there’s beauty in failure?”

Jeeny: “I believe there’s humanity in it. Failure reminds us we’re alive. That we’re still reaching for something beyond ourselves.”

Jack: “And yet we spend our lives trying to avoid it.”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse rejection with worth. They’re not the same thing, Jack.”

Host: He stared at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like a bridge made of fragile light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe these letters aren’t proof that I wasn’t enough. Maybe they’re proof that I kept going anyway.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every ‘no’ you ever got was just the world’s way of saying, ‘Not yet.’”

Host: The rain outside had softened to a mist, the kind that blurs the city lights into watercolor smears of gold and blue. The café clock ticked, steady as a heartbeat.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe someday I will laugh at these letters.”

Jeeny: “When?”

Jack: grinning slightly “When they’re framed on the wall of my office — right next to the awards that came after.”

Jeeny: smiling “And maybe you’ll remember the nights that made them worth it.”

Host: The wine bottle stood empty now, catching the light from the street, a ruby ghost in the dark. Jeeny rose, pulling her coat tight, her silhouette graceful against the window.

Jeeny: “Save your rejections, Jack. One day, they’ll be your trophies.”

Jack: “And what about you?”

Jeeny: “I’ll keep mine too. But I’ll never laugh at them. I’ll thank them — for teaching me how to believe in myself when no one else did.”

Host: He watched her walk out into the night, her umbrella blooming like a dark flower under the streetlight. Jack sat alone for a while, staring at the pile of letters — the symbols of every door that had once closed in his face. Then, slowly, he gathered them into his hands.

He didn’t tear them.
He didn’t burn them.
He just smiled — a small, quiet, human smile.

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped, and the first stars began to appear, faint but steady, like promises kept at last.