I had a more-difficult-than-usual rejection this week of my current poetry manuscript. It was from a press that I love and support and greatly admire, and the pain didn’t come from the rejection– of course I didn’t expect “x” to publish my work. But I’ve had my two previous manuscripts rejected by this press with very personal and encouraging letters. This rejection was just — a rejection. A form letter.
I feel like rejection is PTSD for poets.
It triggers all kinds of feelings. Like most seasoned poets, I try hard to accept that rejections of my poems are simply a part of the work of being a poet. I try not to take them personally and usually succeed. I am typically able to reconstruct postive feelings about myself and my work; and then, to dust it off and re-submit. But there are always going to be some rejections that really hurt.
I’ve had my share of losses, including the unbearable: I lost custody of my son when he was five. I rarely mention it, because it was such a huge loss, and it was also an enormous rejection –of me as a mother, of me as a lesbian, of me as capable of holding my own in a fight, of me as, well, me. Nothing will ever feel as bad as that. But that loss can be triggered by other losses, other rejections. Like this one. And you never know when it’s going to happen, which makes it even trickier to navigate. You just open your email . . . . and fall apart at work, or wherever you happen to be.
On the lighter side, I always appreciated George Hitchcock’s rejection slips for his great magazine Kayak. And he did take the trouble to personally sign them. https://www.google.com/search?q=george+hitchcock+kayak+rejection+slip&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=uyKmpQRyTehVHM%253A%252CSAqU9C6aE3HgFM%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kSRZqEEF4GtE3FKaukhwHZIQ-ooCw&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjG5665pKjiAhUELKwKHbTiAmsQ9QEwAXoECAkQBA#imgrc=uyKmpQRyTehVHM:&vet=1