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I’ve been thinking about rejection lately. Since my last poetry book, The Apple Tree, came out, I’ve forced myself to work harder to get my poems into the world. That means pushing myself to enter contests. It means struggling to choose a group of poems from the larger flock—it is so hard to decide! —then hitting the upload button and submitting them to journals before the narrow acceptance period expires. This is not a “how to”, or a “where to” submit your work sort of blog, or even an advice column. Submitting is a time-consuming process and receiving rejections is mentally exhausting. I’ve read exhortations from poets advising other writers to celebrate the rejections they receive; each rejection, they say, is a sign that you’re serious about your craft; rejections are proof of dedication, each one is a medal. That doesn’t work for me. Does it work for anyone? Really? Perhaps for a few writers with an unusual success rate, or writers with Teflon-coated skin, which must be the greatest asset of all. Thinking about Teflon-coated writers fills me with admiration. It also intimidates me and makes me feel inadequate. 

One thing that does work for me, sometimes, is reminding myself that a lot of poets and novelists, and painters (I’m a visual artist as well as a poet) were rejected over and over again before finally being accepted, celebrated and, ultimately, known (isn’t that an interesting word? The idea of being known is akin to the idea of being seen. To me, that’s a meaningful measure of success, better than sales figures, or immediate but quickly fading Likes). So, when I receive another rejection for a poem that stood out to me, that felt alive, I remind myself that when the Brontë sisters compiled a book of poetry, they self-published it. It was expensive, far more than they could afford. The publisher made a sloppy mess of it and walked off with some of their money. 1,000 copies were printed. Two were sold. * Despite the dismal sales, the sisters kept trying.
 

Let’s say that thinking about the Brontës wasn’t enough, and I’m still staring at the rejection on the screen. Then I’ll go through the names of other writers I admire whose work was refused again and again (nowadays, AI would instantly deliver a hundred, but these rejections are precious to me because I gleaned them one by one, carrying them in my head for years, bringing them out whenever I felt discouraged). Dr. Seuss’ first book was rejected 27 times, until an old friend agreed to publish it. Julia Glass (so good!) sent her work out to literary magazines for seven years before getting a single story published. Alex Haley’s Roots was rejected hundreds of times. Or here’s a more recent one: Douglas Stuart, author of the extraordinary Shuggie Bain, one of the best books I’ve read—so, I mean, ever—and winner of The Man Booker Prize, sent his manuscript out 44 times. It’s not a slow burn of a book; it hooked me from the first sentence. How could anyone have rejected it? 

YouTube is also good. Sometimes, after receiving another painful bump-back, I watch that astonishing clip of an iguana hatchling running through the baking hot sand, dodging snakes who slither towards it from every direction at terrifying speed. I hold my breath each time I watch it. And I remind myself that the chance of winning a contest is about the same as the lizard reaching the other side alive. Occasionally, when sending out the “thanks but no thanks” rejection note, contests provide the total number of manuscripts received. I’m not sure how I feel about this. The average number of manuscripts seems to be 1,000!!!! That’s a number too high for me to visualize. That’s a thousand writers striving, generating work, finding odd moments to write through hectic, anxious days. It’s a thousand people trying to keep their spirits up while the world batters them and sends the message that their poems don’t matter. And only one of those people will win. On the one hand, the knowledge that 999 writers have not been chosendoes comfort me. 1 in 1000. Perhaps, even though my work has been rejected, it is worthy after all. On the other hand, if the odds are so low, is there any point entering the next contest I come across? It’s a tough calculation. I know that, if I want to be seen, to be known as a writer, I have to keep submitting to contests and journals, especially since I didn’t graduate from an MFA program and don’t have the natural writing community that often creates. But, like most writers, there’s enormous pressure on my time. If I can only muster a few hours to write in a week, is it better to write something new that will improve my mood and create meaning—and therefore beauty in my life—or is it better to enter a few more one-chance-in-a-thousand contests?

Let’s say that, by now, several minutes have gone by and I’m still staring at the rejection on the screen (and wasting some of that precious time), here’s another strategy that helps, also available on YouTube. I watch a few minutes of Britain’s Got Talent (I grew up in England). Yes, it’s manipulative and sentimental. It’s also entertaining. I’ve watched Susan Boyle’s original audition dozens of times. Five minutes of pure Cinderella validation. Or I’ll brew another cup of coffee, eat some chocolate, and remind myself that tyhe Brontës sold two copies of a poetry book that included Emily’s poem, “No Coward Soul is Mine.” Now, that’s a good title to recite the next time you upload a group of poems and send them into the unforgiving void.
Say that aloud to yourself, “No coward soul is mine.”

*About that asterisk: I was jubilant to discover, reading yet another biography of Charlotte Brontë, A Fiery Heart by Claire Harman (yes, I admit, I’m obsessed with the Brontës and have been since I first read Jane Eyre as a 12-year-old) that, even though only two wise people bought the book, one of them was so moved by it that he wrote a letter thanking the sisters (masquerading as brothers) for their work. That’s a high rate of return: two books sold, one letter of gratitude. So, the book was a success with readers after all; a reader had seen them).

As for the photo: as someone who wrestles with everything technological, I couldn't work out how to insert a caption. Imagine a small, prone human figure lying on the ground, holding up their crumpled rejected poem. The dragon is the publishing industry.