I'm really pretty proud of this blog, not because it's the latest and greatest thing I've written, but because I've spent a lot of time finessing it to a place where I think the writing is descriptive while dealing with abstract thoughts (I lean heavy on the latter) and to get it to say what I really want it to say. This is 3 rough drafts and 3 line-edit sessions, plus unknown time thinking and turning over my feelings in my head, after the event that began this whole post (my two-hour rejection from a journal which tends to take about 100 days for feedback - hey, did that sound like a slammed door to anyone?)
Because this is probably one of my favorite blog posts I've written all year I am shamelessly tagging some folks. - those who I think would like to read it, have enjoyed my blogs in the past, or who are somehow sideways mentioned. lil kleinbl00 humanodon nowaypablo Complexity thenewgreen
I spent about a year submitting to poetry journals. Looking back, not one of those poems had a chance. Not unless the editor was breaking mad in just the right way... What has to be odd, is your relationship with the first one that gets through. I have to imagine you are left wondering: Why you? And do you convince yourself that your rejections were fundamentally different?
Hmm. The first 2 poetry magazines I was published in - one was a small student-run local production, which I consider to "hardly count." However, technically, it was the first. The second, which was the first one I was not affiliated with in any way, to publish my work - well, while I sincerely appreciate their publishing me, and I was thrilled at the time, and continue to be thrilled that someone "opened a door for me," I was both pretty sure they would accept my work[1] and fairly certain I was better than at least some of what I saw published by that magazine [2]. So there was not so much "why me? why now?" as "Yes! My expectations were validated!" combined with a tiny bit of hollow triumph as I did not hold that poetry magazine in stellar, sterling high regard. Like "I could have done better/tried harder/submitted to more challenging markets." [3] In other words it's almost the opposite of what you imagine, for me personally. Much more often, though, I am left wondering, "Why this poem?" Poems I've written that don't impress me that much often get accepted. Once or twice I've reread them after acceptance and thought, "Really?" This is why it does not do, too much, to worry about whether you like your poems when you submit them. It's really all in the eyes of editors, and I have no insight to them. The one poem I've had accepted at the most prestigious publication I've been accepted in, so far (and that has since sat on my poem and put it in publication hell for like, 6 months and 1-2 issues now), I did very much enjoy, but I thought was generally a bit weird to be published. I was really shocked, but extremely pleased, when it was picked up by a journal with such a big name and following as the one it was picked up by. It still feels false, like somehow I tricked the editors - like they didn't really know what they were accepting. Every poem I submit gets submitted round-the-house to multiple poetry magazines, so every poem, in much the same format and words, is generally rejected by a shit-ton of places and accepted by one, if any. So I don't think I can say I can convince myself my rejections are different. It really, really comes down to: - did I get the editor on a good or bad day? - does their taste align with what I'm writing? - do they like what I have to say? - did I execute the poem well? etc. One of the poems I just had accepted I've shopped around at 10 places before one took it. I had a lot of belief in that poem which is why I supported it so much. Usually after 3-7ish rejections I'll retire a piece and come back to it after a few weeks or months and see if it's still as good as I think and if I can improve upon it. Then I decide whether to send it back out or not. [1] Note: "pretty sure they would accept my work" is a faulty metric. There have been many magazines I was "pretty sure would accept my work" that have absolutely not, whether with personal rejections about how I should try again and they like my style, or not. It's an insane process. What goes up online is probably less than 1% of everything I write. [2] Also can be a faulty metric. See magazines publish what I consider "crap poetry" but that still won't publish me. Taste, natch? [3] This voice comes in almost every time I am accepted somewhere. It is not worth listening to. If I listened to it I would never be published, ever.
No shame necessary, thanks for the tag. I always read your blogs, but usually lack the intellectual capacity to add anything valuable in terms of comment on them. As an aside though, I don't know why you're scrapping the potential of those brunch poems. Here's a guide to making use of how awesome they are: Step 1) compile into a 6-inch by 6-inch book with recyclable ink and hemp paper binding. Big font. Step 2) submit to UrbanOutfitters Step 3) preemptively order one(1) marble bathtub Step 4) profit from book sales Step 5) deposit profit directly into bathtub Step 6) literally doggy-paddle through your figuratively poetic success
That IS a great line. I've been doing this a lot of late. Just because the song may not be all that great, doesn't mean it doesn't have something to teach me. There are a TON of songs that i've written that have taught me about myself. For example, what the hell did this song mean? When I wrote it, I had no idea. It was only later that it was made clearer to me.
Crazy busy but I found time to read this blog. Excellent. I like to think rejection indicates either than one has yet to catch up with the world, or the world has yet to catch up with oneself, and it's a fearsome wine dark lake one sails whilst trying to work out which it is. One thing I've found as I work with creative people is that the more they learn their craft, the more they shed their pretensions; they drop their youthful flourishes with which they distract from the simple, unadorned clarity of authentic expression and, it seems, that is when their work resonates most with others. Then it's just a matter of opening a vein repeatedly until someone respects the colour of the blood on the page.
I love making things. I can't imagine not birthing new art, music etc in to the world. What must that existence be like? We are tortured by the process of acceptance of our art, but imagine not being able to make it. What a hell that would be.In “On Writing,” Stephen King advises his Dear Readers to kill their darlings. He’s stolen this advice, he knows, but that doesn’t diminish its value. I knew that I was in love with each recent creation in part simply because it was new.
Golly, I have almost the exact opposite affliction. I'm almost NEVER in love with what I create immediately. I will always share it with others, but I'll do so almost only as a way to show that I made something, but not to say that I made something of value. It's only later, after I've had time to decipher whether or not the creation, whether it be poetry or song, stays with me. If it does, I may promote it further or work on it more. But the vast majority of things I make die a quick death. They lived, I made them but I don't care to nurture them.
I, like you (I perceive), produce a lot. I feel like constant production is very important. Often, when I fall for one recent creation, it's to the detriment of anything else written around the same time, which may end up possessing more strength, better structure, or even one or two lines that - if I came back and began to play with and finesse the poem - could develop into something great. I often ignore 90% of what I make until weeks or months after the fact. Sometimes I find myself revisiting my writing and going "Hey! This is pretty good! Why didn't I pay it any attention at the time?" So many of my creations do die a quick death, forgotten by the roadside. Some come back to life after time and distance and when I'm sitting surrounded by pages, wracked by the feeling that everything I write is crap, and so sifting through all my recent works to see how I feel about that feeling and is it true? What in the world would I do without writing? I cannot imagine it.