I got a rejection email this morning from an online journal. I’d sent them three poems and the editor is “sorry they will not be able to use them.” Oh, sweet rejection.
Why do I call this sweet? It’s simple. Getting a rejection letter means that I TRIED. I went through the footwork and submitted something. I put something out there.
I’ve been trying to get more comfortable using Submittable, the most popular submission software used by magazines’ websites. I’ve been trying to compile a more current list of publications I would like to explore. I’ve been trying to reach out on social media to more of the poets I have met at readings.
Doing something, no matter how small, in the category of advancing my writing gives me a welcome sense of accomplishment. Insecure as I am, I can say honestly say it doesn’t matter that this particular editor didn’t want them.
I feel as if I somehow gave birth to two beautiful aliens.
The gallery opening was amazing. The work of sixteen artists on display, along with the ten poems that served as inspiration for them. There were two paintings that used my poem as their source.
How do I describe the way seeing them felt? To say I was touched is ridiculously inadequate. Especially since the subject of my poem was so personal (it’s about my daughter) it was overwhelming to see works that artists made with so much time and care.
I got to meet both artists and talk to one of them in more depth about her process. It was clear that the artists put their hearts into the pieces; that my poem resonated with them strongly enough to bring forth this kind of dedication on their part.
Staring at one of the paintings, I felt my mind journey into the depths of the abstract scene portrayed. I felt the world in it take on a life of its own. I had a visceral experience of the fact that a poem can be more than words, more than a set of ideas. That a poem, or any other creative work, can be a spark that ignites an unknown universe.
I can’t describe how hard it was to start sharing my poetry with others a couple of years ago. It has become easier and far more enjoyable with experience, but there are still times when stepping up to that mic or podium feels like opening the book of myself and inviting hordes of savage critics to have a go.
Now I get to take another step out of my comfort zone, thanks to a gallery show that accepted one of my poems. One or more artists did a piece about it, and my poem will be on the wall of the gallery with the pieces for nearly a month. On display. With my name on it. When I go to a gallery reception tomorrow, I’ll be introducing myself to people as my name and work are displayed on the wall.
This is such an honor (and it’s interesting to note how much I have been minimizing it when I talk about it to others, emphasizing that it’s a small show, etc.) While I work on overcoming my inertia and submitting more writing to publications, I get to have the experience of standing by my work in public.
It’s excruciating to have that one piece be the representation of me as a poet. It’s like sweating over which poem to read at an open mic, times a hundred.
It’s a wonderful problem to have.