“You mean the editors actually sent you a personal response?
They must have been impressed as this is rare.”
— O_____ Press, publisher
Okay, okay, I know…editors/publishers don’t use the term “rejection” anymore. Maybe they never did. Still, there is a type of correspondence that arrives either in a physical mail slot or onto a computer that conveys bad news. If it’s a form letter, you are — more often than not — told that your material has not been accepted. That’s it. Plain and simple, no mincing of words or beating around the bush; a technique similar to that of the surgeon’s knife, stuck quick and deep, producing little or no blood, followed by: thanks for considering us, Horseman, pass by!
Sometimes there’s the added qualifier that your material does not meet upcoming needs or that the publication or press itself is presently swamped with excellent poetry and there is simply no room for yours. On rarer occasions, it might be noted that the material is unsuitable for a particular organization’s mandate or a particular theme — automobiles, say — “and while the poems contained images of automobiles, they were not specifically about automobiles, please feel free to try us again at a future date,” or whatever.
I have (personally) even received a missive stating — in bold letters — THIS IS NOT A REJECTION LETTER, which, of course, it was. I mean, as poets, we know in our fragile heart of hearts (AND in the Merriam-Webster dictionary) that if a submission has not been accepted, then, ipso facto, it has been rejected, and no amount of sugar-coating or culturally-sensitive philosophy or soft-sell verbiage — “please understand, this decision is not a reflection on either you or your work as we receive thousands of poems per year and are able to publish only a small portion” — can alter this decree. Off with their heads, being somewhat overdramatic, probably, but, not without serious consideration, given we are talking about someone’s blood, sweat, and tears, laid out naked on the page, for the world to witness and ultimately judge.
“This is not a reflection on either you or your poems…” What? The hell it isn’t. No matter the reason for the decision, the poems (and you) have come up short in comparison to other poems, other poets.
I’m reminded of a section of a poem penned by my good pal Natalee Slagor, who — taking a cue from Charles Bukowski — writes: “beyond & behind smug editors who sneer: / ‘listen, sweetheart, don’t whine to us about poems you sent, / we never read them, see? / we line our bird cages with them / we piss on them. we shit on them / we use them to wipe our collective arse / we light them on fire & roast weenies & marshmallows / are you Merwin? are you Plath? are you Berryman? / try us again when you’ve won a Pulitzer, har-har.” A (perhaps) disturbingly harsh view, I know, even if meant to be metaphorical as a vision created to represent the Kafkian angst, dread, and utter helplessness a poet experiences when sending their work out into the ether, as well as satiric — and wasn’t it Rick Mercer who said he retired from stand-up comedy because nobody understands satire anymore: “It’s a tricky time to have an opinion, it seems like people have much less a sense of humour than they ever did; we’re a sensitive bunch — not to mention highly fanciful, even improbable. After all, editors are people too, yes? Pulling their legs on one pant at a time. Charged with a (often) thankless task which requires decision-making that includes personal biases/likes/dislikes as well as pressure from all level of social, bureaucratic and political involvement and interference.
So, yes, being a poet is one of those undertakings that requires growing a thick skin, and — while it is impossible to happily accept rejection [never mind embrace and/or celebrate] as an outcome, especially frequently and repeatedly — being less sensitive, learning to reclaim the word “rejection” (call a spade a spade [or a fucking shovel] as the case may be) so that we can discuss the term for what it is: an inevitable and even (sadly) necessary part of the industry stock and trade. Having said this, of course, there are further perils which one needs to be made aware of, so as to avoid unpleasant surprises.
Back in the salad days of my youth (if, indeed, there were such carefree and innocent days), and before I’d managed to find a publisher of my first book, I received a hand-written note from an editor that began: “What a breath of fresh air to arrive Monday morning and read your manuscript. The language is powerful and energetic.” Well, I thought, this is it, success! I’ve managed to crack the wall and penetrate the inner sanctum. Simply sign on the dotted line and fame and fortune and a secure position in the Canadian poetry canon will be mine! But wait! There’s more: “Unfortunately, it does not suit our upcoming publishing needs. Good luck placing it elsewhere.”
WTF?!
There followed other examples of the same ilk: initial praise, only to be sucker punched and have the rug pulled out at the end by a “but” or a “however” or an “unfortunately.” I found myself squarely in the confusion of George W. Bush territory: “There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.”
Except you can. And I was. And I am. It was like déja vu all over again [Yogi Berra] and I was that goldfish swimming circles inside the glass bowl bumping into the same ceramic sunken ship, repeating: oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…
“The ribald, nihilistic voice of these poems provokes and intrigues. However…”
“We did admire the virtuosity on display here [un(en)titled] — an art house wild-child bad-boy vibe with high literary sensibility, but…”
“It’s a beautifully written, provocative, smart, engaging, funny work: poetry I truly enjoyed. And that’s part of the problem, I guess; one of the reasons it’s taken me this long to get back to you. Because the work is so compelling I found, and still find, myself wavering. I suspect, unfortunately, you know where this missive is heading. Although I think you’ve written some remarkable poetry, I just don’t feel it’s right for...”
“Thank you for giving us a chance with On First Looking into Norton’s Pomer. I admire many things about the way you have executed the poems in this project — your feel for language play, what strikes me as a carefully deployed irreverence, and a willingness to mess around a bit with gender. Unfortunately…”
“Boom! Big energy in these babies. I enjoyed them a lot. Having said that…”
“A powerful collection, however, a bit too ‘big city’ for us.”
Of course, there were instances of even closer, but still no cigar: “Parts of the MS [Howl Down the Moon] had echoes of Ginsberg and were absolutely fascinating. It really was a difficult year for choosing. And the wheel of fortune could have easily tilted the other way. Your work is fabulous.”
Closer, yet, was this letter: “Thanks for sending The Ghosts of My Days for consideration. I found the manuscript to be fascinating, deep and unpredictable. I’m going to offer it to another reader for a second opinion.” The editor went on to inform me that this procedure — while the policy of the press — was strictly routine, and that the likelihood of acceptance was all but guaranteed. Such was not the case, as it turned out. In fact, the second reader was vehemently (almost violently) opposed to the ms, and offered comments that were the polar opposite to the initial editor. I wondered: how could this be and how could they ever agree on anything, having such differing views? Even understanding that compromise is a foundational tenet of the Canadian psyche, given the precarious and contrary natures of those involved, wouldn’t it be advisable, prudent, fair, even, to [perhaps] involve a third reader?
Just saying, and one can’t help but scratch one’s head at times, as in: “Again, I like the passion and energy here, and the accessibility combined with thoughtful conception. A bit more attention to language, though, it’s what our readers look for (though I’m sure they read extremely well out loud!) Keep on.”
A bit more attention to language… Meaning, what, exactly? As a poet, don’t I pick and choose and make [thoughtful] decisions about the words, the language, I use, culled from a vast [infinite?] pool of alternative examples? Don’t I then take these building blocks and arrange them on the page in some precise fashion so as to be presentable to a reader? And don’t I know that some readers — especially literary — will appreciate the effort while others will be left cold, and that is, as they say, the nature of the beast, and to be expected, as an audience has varying sensibilities, tastes and moods which are subject to change on any given day?
Another editor writes: “Frankly, we’re not sure what to make of these poems. They’re inventive, audacious, and pleasurably confrontational. They are also uneven, inconsistent in voice, and rough in their form.”
I ask myself, might it be the case that the reason the poems come across as “inventive, audacious, and pleasurably confrontational” is precisely because they are “uneven, inconsistent in voice, and rough in their form,” and were meant to be written in just such a manner so as to produce that effect? Or would that be carrying things a bit too far?
Ultimately, I blame myself, who else? After all, no one put a gun to my head and forced me into a vocation that promised far more pain than gain. And — let’s be honest — even using a term like “gain” in connection with poetic success is a stretch and almost oxymoronic in that, even the winners are [more] often losers, as there is, for the most part, little or no monetary remuneration and still less recognition — no palm prints outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, no cover of the Rolling Stone, no watermark in Poets’ Corner — either through the media, or within the existing social fabric. I mean, it’s not like cat videos on YouTube or force-feeding yourself a whole massive birthday cake on Tik Tok for your 15 seconds of fame, or whatever.
Anyway, for years — too many, I fear — I have existed under the delusion that hard work, continued creative output, and close attention to the craft of writing would be sufficient to win friends and influence people, as well as open doors to new and exciting publishing opportunities. I also figured that my past accomplishments would ensure a sort of street cred within the literary community. Apparently, not.
“There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Swell.
I was talking to a woman at a party once. She was some kind of big wheel in TV broadcasting. She was finishing a first novel. I asked if she had a publisher and she said yes. As we’d been introduced to each other as writers, I mentioned that I was also finishing a novel, though I didn’t have a publisher, and it was normal procedure for me to seek after the fact. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “that’s insane, I would never write anything on spec. Never.” With that, she smiled [wickedly, I felt, lips stretched thin, the corners of her mouth turned up] and excused herself from my company to refresh her drink.
Must be nice, I thought. As opposed to…you know…the typical state of affairs for us mere mortals. I recalled [suddenly] a poem by Richard Brautigan, titled, Hey! This is What It’s All About, that goes, in part: “No publication / No money / No star / No fuck.”
The irony is that he had all of this and more, and still ended by shooting himself in the head with a .44 magnum, aged 49. He’d been [apparently] watching an NFL game. No indication which teams were playing. His body was only discovered a month after the suicide. Messy.
Similarly, Anne Sexton — among the most honoured poets in the U.S., and just prior to the publication of her latest poetry collection — put on her mother’s old fur coat, removed all her rings, poured herself a glass of vodka, locked herself in her garage, and started the engine of her car, ending her life by carbon monoxide poisoning.
Henry Miller wrote: “I have no money, no resources, no hope. I’m the happiest man in the world.” He went on to write a string of banned books and lived to be 88.
Makes you think, maybe rejection isn’t such a bad alternative, after all.
Naw, just kidding. Rejection sucks, no matter how you dress it up.
“But,” “however,” “unfortunately, “yet,” “having said…”
Hey! This is what it’s all about. Get over it. Get over yourself. The game of poetry is not for sissies. Listen! Hear the thin voice of Samuel Beckett whispering in your ear: “You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on”
Publish or perish, yes?
So, it’s once more into the breach, into the fishbowl, circling, repeating: Oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…oh, that’s new…
Ad hoc, ad hominem, ad infinitum.
Stan Rogal — along with his artist partner and their pet jackabee — operates out of the small hamlet commonly known as Torawna, just west of The Hammer. He is the alleged author of a handful of books, plus several chapbooks (some of which were published by above/ground press, thanks!) An autodidactic intellectual classicist [reformed]. Speaks semi-fluent English and controversial French. Also: personal confessor, truth teller, and psychic investigator — no job too small, cheap rates, call now for a free estimate.
