When I first started submitting poetry to online literary mags, I created a list of every single place I submitted to, what poems I submitted, and whether or not those poems were accepted.

I decided to highlight each submission rejection in red and each acceptance in green. The result? The Red Queen’s rose garden–everything painted a sickening, glaring red.

After submitting my first group of poems, I clicked my “inbox” button over and over throughout the day, every day, until the reply came from the journal editors. My heart leaped as I saw the first words, “Thank you for letting us read your work, which we thoroughly enjoyed reading…” Opened the e-mail, and WHAM: “Unfortunately the poems aren’t a right fit for our journal at this time. We wish you luck placing these poems elsewhere.”

Ugh. Ok, it’s polite. But why did it hurt so much? I guess knowing that your poems aren’t a “right fit” for a journal makes you feel like you’re an odd one–or that you’re definitely NOT one of the cool kids. Especially if the journal in question is Pith or Lunch Ticket (I will get you, one day!!!!)

But then I got e-mail after e-mail that read basically the same. The editors were glad for the chance to read my work, but ultimately my stuff wasn’t a good fit. And the pain slowly began to wear off.

Rejection in any form isn’t a pleasant thing. But it’s especially scary when your heart is on the line–your creative heart, that is. People rejecting the way you ordered letters on a page may seem ridiculous but it’s the love behind the product that makes it sting.

At one point, I’d received only rejections for an entire year, failing to place what I thought were quality poems and short stories. My mind was so numb to editors’ replies that some days I didn’t even bother reading them, because I knew what they were going to say. I felt bruised, but the bruises didn’t last as long, and in fact, my determination to get published just increased tenfold.

I kept submitting. I wrote brand new poems, realizing the old slush were duds. I read other people’s poems. I read journals. I created an outline for a future chapbook. I put myself in the success mindset, knowing that for every fifty rejections, an acceptance would come, and it would be worth it.

And the acceptances did come, eventually. Actually they all crashed down upon me in the span of about six months, the likes of which I’ve never seen again (must have been a lucky surge or some fancy star alignments). I recognized my first acceptance instantly, because instead of starting with the same old words “Thank you for letting us read…”, it remarkably began with “We are delighted to inform you…”

That’s how all good acceptance letters begin and if they don’t begin that way then it’s time to hire a new editor.

I felt vindicated. I felt, for the first time, like a real writer. I was going to be published! A poem of mine was going to read by other people–strange people! People I’ve never met! Cool people!

And suddenly, all the dozens and dozens of rejections burst into a fiery nuke of forgotten memory. I hardly batted an eye as I highlighted green for the first time on my list, right after the solid row of brick red. The green had the power to blind me to every insecurity I had about my writing.

Well, until about a month after that publication. Then the submitting began again, and the waiting, and the rejections.

It never ends. And that’s what writers have to deal with. The constant and consistent lure of success being twisted into hope, then anxiety, then ultimately a sad lump of regret.

Now, though, rejection is easy. It holds almost no power over me. I guess that comes with all experiences–what’s overly familiar just isn’t scary anymore.

So I continue to submit and hope and cross my fingers and beg the literary gods for support, but if it doesn’t work out, it’s no biggie. I’ll just try, try again.

‘Cause dammit I want my chapbook already! >:-(