No, No, No

Today was a banner day. I received not one, not two, but three rejections. Rather disheartening, especially for the short story that was only submitted four days ago. Rejection form letters, or as it’s done these days emails, assure us writers that each and every submission is read completely and with care, yet when a nearly 2,700 word story returns so quickly, one cannot help but wonder. And become dejected.

I received two of the rejections while I was still at art school this afternoon, but I kept the news to myself. One rejection was, dare I say it, expected. Each week Rattle publishes a poem based on that week’s news. I sometimes submit but have yet to be published there. Writing on the week’s news is an interesting exercise. The news these days certainly provides much fodder for contemplation and reaction. Yet, writing quickly for a weekly, Friday night deadline is tough. Sometimes, the poem is a bit raw. This week’s poem has promise but was not quite ready–particularly in finding a title. I was not surprised, yet still disappointed.

The second rejection was harder. It was another poem that had originally been written for Rattle’s Poet’s Respond, but this one was a week or so old, and therefore, I have had time to do some revising. I think it is a good poem. But, alas, this site I sent it to, only four days ago has (foolishly, in my opinion) decided it is not for them. This was disheartening for me because I debated with myself at length whether or not to even submit to this market as it is a non-paying market. Usually, I don’t submit to non-paying markets; if I’m not going to be paid for my poetry, I’ll publish it here. Yet, this particular site notes on their “About” page that the editors are volunteers. That swayed my opinion towards giving them a shot.

Then, there was the third rejection, the short story. As I was driving home, my phone chimed that a new message came in, but, of course, I did not look at it. Yet, then once I parked, I called my husband to help me with the packages, and while I waited for him, I succumbed to opening the email. Dismay.

I cannot say that I did not get discouraged. I did. For a fleeting moment, I thought, why do I do it? But that moment passed, and I got back on the horse, as they say. This evening, I did some revising and then sent out three new submissions: the short story, the poem from this week’s Poet’s Respond, and other poems. Back to crossing my fingers and wishing on a star. Send your good thoughts my way, and to my prospective editors!!

And now to a new story…

 

To Be a Writer

Recently, I  was reading a post on HarsH ReaLitY, a blog by a self-titled opinionated man, in which he poses the question,  what does it mean to “be a writer”?  An age old question, is it not, especially for those of us who have yet to have our work validated by traditional publishing venues which raises another: is that validation necessary to call oneself a writer?

My answer is no. A writer is one who writes regularly and with intention,  one who cannot not write.  When you feel something missing when you have gone too long without putting pen to paper and feel unaccountably agitated after several days without writing,  you are a writer. If writing connects you to your soul and makes you feel whole,  you are a writer. What it takes to be a writer, is writing. Sit down and write, regularly.

Of course in our modern age replete with alternative publishing venues,  it is easier to “be published,” one might argue. This blog itself is a form of publishing.  Yet,  many (most?) still aspire to the golden ring of traditional publishing and hesitate to call ourselves writers until it is grasped. But,  consider this, would you call Emily Dickinson are writer?  I certainly would.  She is poet par excellence, yet her own time rejected her poems. The few that were published appeared without her name and probably without her approval. Those she did send out intentionally were rejected. And yet she wrote, and wrote, and wrote. And then she sewed them up into little booklets and put them in a drawer. She was a writer.

Sure, Dickinson wished for that external validation as much as any of us (and feared it as well),  but the lack thereof did not stop her flow of words.  Neither should it ours. We should keep on writing and call ourselves writers. And let us acknowledge that we are published when we share our words on our blogs. Nine Cent Girl has an excellent meditation on this (Another Anniversary!). These alternate venues are real publishing because our words are shared. Ultimately we write to be read, to communicate; through our blogs we are, we do. We are luckier than Emily in that respect, and in the comment section too, where the world can respond.

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,–
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

—Emily Dickinson