pi & anne

I think if I get another rejection that reads like copy/paste, a form rejection, I’ll just scream. Sadly enough just my family will hear it, not those that have sent the rejection. I feel like a number in a system. A coffee mug with a crack in the waste bin. A strange cat with no name in the wrong house. (I just need to vent. It’s the last day of this year, so let me be honestly pissed with the whole process.)

Rejections are hard. Yes, and I slowly get to be at least a bit more fine with that.

But what should I learn from a form rejection? What can I do to improve my writing? Has the topic been no fit? Is it my style? Didn’t my haiku meet the right criteria? Is my English too bad? Is the poem just not right there? Didn’t I meet the editor’s taste or mood? I DON’T KNOW. I will not get an answer to this, so I have to ASSUME.

What are writers prone to assume? They assume perhaps they secretly suck and they are just fake and the only person they know who might like their writing are they themselves. For a while. (No, that’s no good, I know that.)

Selfdoubt can be horrifying but also necessary at times, for staying humble and keen to learn. But there is no better way to demotivate me than a form rejection. I’ll ask myself not just twice but multiple times more if to submit there again. And struggle with a general reluctance to submit in general. (I could just post it on my blog. I could just close the door and write for me and my friends again. I could just write because I love the act of writing, and be my own publisher…)

Without real interaction, where is the connection?

On the other side: choosing from hundreds of submissions and writing rejections is a tedious and time-consuming work. I guess it depends on a ton of factors why one takes on this job.

• Maybe they love reading a broad palette of poetry.
• Maybe they love poetry and are dedicated to offer readers a great reading experience.
• Maybe they enjoy the act of choosing.
• Maybe they want to support the genre and therefore help the poets to improve their writing.
• Maybe they have a mission.
• Maybe they want to improve their reputation.
• Maybe they can just invest a certain amount of time and labour out of many reasons (that’s okay! Health and family first!), but they do this purposefully. (Thank you.)
• Maybe they like to be the one in power.
• Maybe they have years of experience and believe it is time to raise the bar, because lowering it would lead to bad poetry written.
• Maybe it’s a thing of ego.
• Maybe it’s a thing of humble awe.
• Maybe…

Let’s be clear. It’s in the majority of cases not the money. Because what money? You don’t get rich with publishing niche genre poetry as a small independent poetry journal.(Please don’t throw things at me for calling it niche. Niche is nothing bad.).

So so so many things could be listed there. And all of them will influence how you do your job. So what does the choice of a form rejection mean on this background?

For me the following might be the crucial aspect: “Maybe they want to support the genre and therefore help the poets to improve their writing.”

I believe it is beautiful to take on the role of journal editor with a dedication to the beauty of the genre and wanting to bring out the best in people. To believe in their potential. To be a tiny bit of a midwife.

And maybe this is why form rejections just hit me in a very vulnerable spot. I feel like… I am not worth the effort. My poetry is not worth the effort. Maybe one sentence could already point me the way. I want to get better. I WANT to improve my writing.

A form rejection sounds so neutral, one might think it does not anger or hurt people, does not offer a substance to get angry about, because no mistake will be pointed out. It seems easier. It is easier. It has other consequences though.

(End of rant.)