I don't write songs, but I do write. Though, so far, nobody's bought my fiction, except the IRS.
I've collected a number of rejection slips. The kind I hate, as does every other writer I know, are the kind where the editor decided to be clever. He makes some nasty, snide, remarks about the story. One of my friends got a rejection that read "That was a waste of both our time, wasn't it."
She put the word out that this guy was an S.O.B. and he got fewer manuscripts. In fact, the magazine folded, I think because the editor was a jerk.
The rejection letter I like, as much as one CAN like rejections, offers a few encouraging words before discussing what I did wrong, and why they aren't going to publish it.
Young talent needs encouragement, along with a bit of constructive criticism.
Was I ever that young?
When I was 17, and old enough to know better, I swore at the head of the upper school, because I wanted to take a creative writing class with a published writer. (The alternative was a lady we called Auntie Groovy who never even sent her verses to a publisher.) I wanted criticism from somebody who knew about writing.