October 20: Rejection, Publication, Snoopy

After work yesterday, I went to my niece's birthday party.  When I got there, my wife told me I received a letter from the poetry editor of the magazine The MacGuffin.  My heart skipped about three or four beats.

"What did the letter say?"  I asked.

"I didn't open it," my wife said.

"Did you bring it with you?"

"No," she said.  "I didn't."

So ensued an hour-and-a-half of agonized waiting.  I submitted poems to The MacGuffin in early July.  I'd literally forgotten about the poems, the magazine, the editor, everything.  When I hit the door of my house after the party, I saw the envelope sitting on the table.  It was thicker than I expected.  I wasn't sure if that was a good omen or a bad omen.  I sat on my couch and opened the envelope.

Thank you for submitting to The MacGuffin, the letter read.  Although we are unable to publish your work at this time, we thank you for the opportunity to review it.

Along with the letter was a slip of paper, asking me to subscribe to the magazine, and a slip a paper with submission guidelines.  A standard, form rejection with a solicitation for money.

After the last couple of days of sickness and bad news, I actually harbored the hope, for a few minutes, that God was throwing me a bone.  And my tail was wagging until I ripped open that envelope.  As a writer, I expect rejection.  Massive rejection.  However, that doesn't make the sting of rejection less painful.  Each one seems like a little death.  One of my friends who's a successful writer once told me that each rejection brings you one step closer to publication.  I told him he was full of shit.

Basically, every rejection I get feels like I've just been picked last for the kickball teams in gym class.  Again.  Having assumed the role of assistant poetry editor for the literary magazine at the university where I teach, I know what a difficult task it is to wade through a pile of crappy poems to find one gold nugget of verse that makes it all worthwhile.  I know that poetry editors perform a thankless task, usually for little to no money.  It's all for the love of the art.

However (you knew there was a "however" coming), I'm tired of being the literary equivalent of a dodge ball target.  God needs to cut me some slack this week.  Give me some goodness to hang on to.  Perhaps I used my year's supply of goodness last weekend at the Wisconsin Dells.  Now I'm running of empty.  This afternoon, I have a meeting with the graduate students who are associate poetry editors at the magazine.  We're going through submissions.  The power is in my hands this time to give some unknown poet the thrill of a lifetime or crush his poetic dreams into oblivion.

Saint Marty feels like sharing his pain today.