Courting rejection

Earlier this summer when I received several e-mails from Steve Michaels, the International Society of Poets Awards Chairperson, I was shocked to find out how famous I had become. He informed me that I was invited to their Summer Convention and Symposium in Washington, D.C., where they wanted me to present my "poetic artistry in front of more than 1,900 poets from over 50 countries." They had a variety of awards for me: the International Poet of Merit Silver Award Bowl, a bronze Commemorative Award Medallion, and a one-year membership in the ISP. And since I was unable to attend the convention -- something they presumed since I hadn't responded to their earlier e-mails -- they had "arranged for professional poetry reader Alan Rose to read [my] poem at this largest gathering of poets in history," and I could still receive my awards by mail. All I had to do was "submit a poem to be formally presented at the convention."
I was surprised that they didn't already have one of my poems. How else could they realize that I was deserving of such a prestigious award? I gave them the benefit of the doubt and read further into the letter: "Additionally, we must also ask you for the necessary funds" -- a mere $169 -- to have my poem read at the convention and to send me "these extremely bulky and heavy awards." The bowl is, according to the e-mail, "over 10 inches across and over 10 inches high" on a "cherry wood base;" they didn't mention the dimensions of the medal, but it hangs from "a 25-inch red, white, and blue satin ribbon."
I suppose that I should be grateful that an organization with such a prestigious name had the wisdom and good taste to recognize my skill as a poet. They didn't seem to have read any of my work, but maybe word of my poetic mastery had finally reached them and now they wanted to recognize my poetry and me. Fame, glory, and widespread publication had to be just around the corner. This is what they want people to think, but not because the ISP, or other similar businesses like the National Library of Poetry, are interested in poetry or poets. On the contrary, these outfits run scams in which they publish anyone's poetry knowing that many of the writers will buy expensive products that feature their work or will shell out $169 so that someone will recognize and publish them even if their "poetry" is dreadful.
This willingness to pay someone for a poetry award is a clear indication of how badly some people want others to reassure them that they are, in fact, poets. However, this is a shortcut for those who dream of being recognized for their writing but who are also afraid of facing the rejections that inevitably come to those who take the more difficult and legitimate but less expensive route to publication by submitting their work to some of the hundreds of small literary magazines produced around the country. A substantial amount of time and effort is required to find editors who are interested in the type of work you produce, to write cover letters and address envelopes, to go to the post office to be sure your submissions have adequate postage, to keep accurate records of which poems you sent where, and to continue writing. But this investment of time and effort isn't what keeps most people from submitting their work to magazines and journals that publish poetry.
When we first think about sending our work out, we feel as vulnerable as a seventh grade boy who belongs to the Chess Club and intends to ask the head cheerleader to the Homecoming Dance. We admire his determination, his willingness to shoot high, to take his courage in hand and approach a girl who is out of his league. We hope that by some miracle she'll say, "Yes," and that on the night of the dance she'll discover that he's far more than she or even he expected. But when she says, "No," and the boy trudges back to the Chess Club with the cheerleaders' giggles echoing down the hall behind him, we feel his pain. Sending our work out to magazines and journals can make us feel like that seventh grade boy.
People wouldn't submit their work if they didn't have at least a glimmer of hope that someone might publish it, but the prospect of rejection is frightening and demoralizing. As a result, they don't send their work out but instead look for compliments and encouragement from people who know little about writing or who don't have the heart to be honest with the writer or they pay someone to tell them what they want to hear. Consequently, their growth as writers is minimal and sometimes nonexistent.
During the past four years I've been submitting my work -- primarily poems -- to large and small literary and academic journals around the country. In the beginning I opened with great anticipation and optimism those self-addressed, stamped envelopes that came back to me, but I was regularly disappointed. Nearly every one contained a rejection letter, and since then I've received over one hundred, a few from large, prestigious magazines like The New Yorker or Poetry but many more from small, lesser-known literary journals. I tried to interpret whatever signs were present in the letter in an effort to understand why my work had been rejected. And while I came up with many theories -- the editor was too dense to understand the subtle complexities of my poem; he or she obviously had some unreasonable biases against men, teachers, Laredoans, or Texans; he or she was in too much of a hurry to read my poems with the care and patience they required; or possibly they didn't read the poems at all and were simply playing a horrible, twisted prank on me and other unsuspecting but well-intentioned writers. The theories made me feel better for a while, but eventually I had to admit that I was trying to defend poems that probably didn't deserve to be published in the first place and that there was no way I could determine exactly what caused the editor to reject my work unless he or she gave a specific reason in the letter, something that rarely happened. After a couple of years I decided that editors rejected my submissions for one of two reasons: (1) I sent them bad or unfinished work or (2) I sent good work to the wrong place.
These lessons about rejection were important but also hard to swallow. It's difficult to admit that a poem might not be as good as I thought it was when it first dripped from my imagination onto the page. But after a dozen editors all returned it with their regrets, it was time to reevaluate it and then either revise it or keep it at home. Of course, there were other things I needed to learn so as not to become demoralized by the process of submitting my work for publication. Some of the other facts of life of the writer who tries to get published include these:
1. You will wait to be rejected. It typically takes three months but sometimes up to 10 or 12 months for an editor to respond to submissions.
2. You will try to interpret the lack of response from an editor to whom you submitted your work. Today you will assume that he or she has not responded because your poems are under serious consideration; tomorrow you will assume that they are buried in a slush pile on the editor's desk and will never see the light of day again.
3. You will be rejected, regularly and without malice or encouragement. According to Poet's Market, around 90 percent of the poems submitted are rejected. This, of course, means that even a considerable number of good poems are returned to their writers.
4. You will take the rejections personally, especially at first, and allow them to interrupt your writing routine.
5. You will, after receiving several rejections, consider not submitting any more work.
6. You will gradually regain the courage and desire to send out your work again.
7. You will eventually be published somewhere if you continue to submit. Your work might not appear in The New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly, but there are plenty of small literary publications looking for good poetry.
8. You will not be paid for what you publish. You might receive copies of the publication in which your work appears, but only on rare occasions will you receive cash.
9. You will discover that neither you nor your life is noticeably different once some of your work has been published.
10. You might find solace in the fact that the rejections themselves reveal much about how difficult it is for editors to tell writers, "No thanks."
Editors, rather than saying flat out that they don't want the poems I sent them and, if the truth be known, never will, sometimes couch their refusal in a phrase that suggests that things might change. In rejection letters, such as those I've received from Able Muse and The Ohio Review, editors say things like, "your poems . . . did not meet our present needs" or "we regret that we will be unable to publish your poems at this time." They try to soften the blow by implying that while we don't want these poems "at this time," we might want them at some point in the future. Face it: they won't, but they just don't have the heart to say so.
Frequently editors try to buoy the writer's spirits by offering hope. And like a kid at Christmas, they hope for a variety of things: "that you will be successful in placing it elsewhere," that "you will consider submitting again," that "these comments aid you in revision," or "for your continued interest." Never do they hope, however, that their judgement will improve or that their editorial tastes will change.
Other editors rely on optimism to generate good will. They are the cheerleaders of the publishing world, those who write (and I can see the warm, toothy smile that covers their sympathetic faces as they say this) "we certainly would like to hear from you again. . . ." (Nebo), or "we often like poems we decide not to publish" (Chachalaca). However, when Borderlands said that they "enjoyed reading all of the submissions and would like to have commented on all of them," I'm reminded of how much I'm annoyed by excessively -- and sometimes artificially -- cheerful people. I edited a literary magazine for four years and I know what kind of poetry is often submitted. Honestly, I find it hard to believe that they "enjoyed reading all of the" poems they received.
One editorial tactic that I particularly enjoy is diverting responsibility for the rejection. Editors point to any number of things or circumstances to avoid saying that he or she didn't like the work I sent them and doesn't want to publish it. In some cases it's "the volume of submissions [that] prevents" them from accepting my poems. Sometimes it's the magazine itself, not the people: "TriQuarterly will not resume reading unsolicited manuscripts until. . . ." Even the editors at The New Yorker said that they "are unable to use" what I sent them. It's not that they don't want to use them; they simply cannot, which leads me to believe that some deranged poetry-hater is threatening them with harm if they actually decide to publish my work. How else can one explain their inability to use my poems?
A common device used by editors to reduce the amount of anger or blame that writers whose work they rejected might direct at them is to offer apologies, not for their bad judgement in rejecting their wonderful poetry, but for other things. An editor at Ascent wrote, "I am truly sorry you've not heard from us before now" and another from TBIWA said, "Sorry, it's not what we're looking for." Some editors even criticize themselves, probably thinking that writers will find it difficult to hold a grudge against someone who already feels so bad. A letter I received from Great River Review wrote, "Sorry I've been so slow this time" while one from descant read in part, "I have learned that I'm a lousy editor. . . ." Knowing from experience how difficult it can be to receive a rejection, these editors try to make rejected writers feel better by pointing out how inadequate they themselves are.
But like most people, I enjoy a creative approach; in one case the editor used a diversion: "This is what is commonly called a rejection slip. I prefer to call it a release form. Your poems have not been accepted for publication in Blue Violin, but they have been released back to you. . . ." It's such a relief to know that I haven't been rejected; my poems have simply been released. It's similar to what sportsmen do -- catch and release, and so my poems are unharmed and free to roam the world again.
And occasionally I'm grateful that a publication has rejected my work, especially when I see the lack of care that they give to something as simple but important as a rejection letter. A while back I sent a sonnet to Cat Fancy. Not only did they not want the poem but they sent me this reply: "I would like to thank you for your time and patients." I am, of course, not a doctor, and writing a brief note like this is not brain surgery, but I was grateful that they declined the opportunity to try their handiwork on my poem.
Let's not delude ourselves with the empty flattery of others or pay some huckster to tell us how wonderful our poetry is. Instead, let's get involved -- as serious, working poets have done for years -- in the larger world of practicing writers beyond Laredo and the border. Since we're less likely to fear something if we're familiar with it, let's court rejection and search out legitimate publishers of poetry, submit our work, expect to be rejected frequently, but keep on writing and know that with perseverance it's just a matter of time before an editor sends a letter that begins, "We're proud to accept . . ." or "The Editorial Board is pleased to announce . . ." or (be still my beating heart) "We'd like to purchase your poem. . . ."

(Randy Koch teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Texas A&M International University.)