Having grown up in Edinburgh, I am a frequent Fringe-goer and enthusiast. This year, however, was different. I put on my own spoken word show for a week’s run – producing, writing, performing: the lot. And, while I could, very easily, make this article a self-indulgent exposition of my performance experience, I would much prefer to explain a lesson I learnt about rejection.

The show wasn’t a flop – it got four stars in fact – and getting audiences of 12 to 15 people for a “performance poetry” show was pretty decent. It was a success. However, I don’t actually know what motivated people to come to my show because not one single person that I flyered came along. Maybe people found the show in the Fringe guide and liked the look of it or heard about it through a friend or through Facebook. Maybe flyering is just a dying art.

Still, it was desperately disheartening. I flyered last year as a summer job for numerous Fringe shows, and that was bad enough. But this time, I wasn’t just plugging some random show in which I had no personal investment. I was basically selling myself – not in a sexual way, obviously, but in a “come and see me pour out my soul” kind of way. I had managed the organisation of the show, written all the material, memorised it, designed flyers and had them printed; the flyers had my face on them, for goodness’ sake! So, each “no thanks”, each shake of the head, each feigned ignorance of my existence as I shoved flyers at people was a form of personal rejection. Even if I was promoting a show I was in, it would have been different. I would have been part of a cast of actors; I wouldn’t be selling me, I’d be selling the play. I wouldn’t be all on my own.

I flyered for my show whenever I could, and always for two hours just before the show. The shattering rejection I received is not the kind of pre-show prep I usually go for – it doesn’t exactly boost your confidence. But I was forced to deal with it. The first flyer of the day was always the most difficult. I wouldn’t have said before that I had a fear of rejection, but I suppose we all do. It comes from a survival instinct to avoid being ostracised from the tribe. It’s the root of the nerves we get before meeting new people, before opening an important letter, and before going on stage – the acceptance only comes when the final applause begins. After a while, I learned to laugh at people’s rebuffs and smile to myself when people who said “yeah I’ll come” never showed up.

There’s a theory that small doses of rejection every day help us to become more confident, secure individuals, not reliant upon external validation. Some people, following this, seek out rejection on a daily basis - for example, asking other people insignificant questions which they know will provide a negative response. I recently watched a video of someone deliberately ordering pineapple at a fast food restaurant – a seemingly strange clip but one which effectively demonstrated this point. The staff member said they didn’t serve pineapple and that was that. It was a little embarrassing but there were no dire repercussions. It wasn’t life or death. For the customer, it was liberating to know that it’s okay to be told no, to be rejected – like accepting that it’s okay to fail.

It’s slightly different, though, when the success of your own show, six months of work and two years of writing, hinges on a “yes” or “no”. Really, I was relying on people’s humanity and trust: asking strangers to take a chance on an unknown poet and a debut show. The stakes weren’t very high – it was a free show that only lasted 45 minutes – but it was still a risk. And, even though I was disheartened by those who rejected me or took a flyer and barely glanced at it, I was also overwhelmed by the audience members who did take a chance on me: both those who walked in off the street thinking “why not”, and those who had a specific interest in poetry – and particularly those who left generous donations!

I suppose it’s the “yeses” that count, and that’s what I should remember. There are so many occasions in life where you’re told “no” – especially in the performance industry – but it just takes one “yes” to make a difference. You have to think of rejection not as your own loss, as the person who has been rejected, but the loss of the person who has rejected you.

The people who didn’t see my show missed out. Everyone has to start somewhere and, when I’m a famous writer and actress, those who binned my flyer will have passed up the opportunity to say years down the line, “I saw her before she was famous” (and I thought this slant wouldn’t be self-indulgent). Regret is definitely worse than rejection. Putting on my own Fringe show was hard, but I don’t regret it.

I said yes to an opportunity which has enriched my life. And winners aren’t those who get told “yes” but those who say “yes”.