Rejection Slips & Kidney Stones
......by Janet I. Buck
Imagine the study of a famous writer: paper aching to be graced with the brush of wisdom, a scented candle of colorful memories exuding its light and breath upon the world, contentment in perfectly metered lines that penetrate the galaxy of human life.Then, take a hike in reality: Gorilla warfare with writer's block, obsessive concentration pains, an unsympathetic puppy shredding four rolls of toilet paper at your feet, and a computer that crashes when your very first stroke of genius finally gets its long-awaited erection. In the background, that foghorn phone is ringing off the hook and your husband asks when (if ever) the family is going to eat. Art wins battles like these, just to be myopically slaughtered by an editor who thinks he is God but writes like Robert Burns in a free-writing class. These are the islands of creativity, a vacation from justice if ever one touched this earth. In spite of being crop-dusted by disaster, you finish a poem, send it off like the last fragile vestiges of your sexuality, and wait patiently for castration.
Rejection letters remind me of a scene in Woody Allen's ‘Play it Again, Sam'. The protagonist is on the phone with his girlfriend who is just about to dump him: "You're overweight, lazy, boring, stupid, penniless, and unattractive...but for God's sake, don't take it personal!" You gather your wits and make a trip to the booby trap of a mailbox. It's always the same: like treading emotion's muddy Nile with snakes in your swimming shorts. If your other half happens to do you a favor and bring in the mail, he gets buried smack in the middle of candor's typhoon (the wise ones buy two dozen apologetic roses long before creativity's funeral takes hold).
I often console myself with menial comforts: the editor is probably living through an uninvited visit from his mother-in-law, his kids got run over by the inevitable presence of apathy and someone reported him to the authorities, or he sat on a nail on his porch swing and felt like beating the crap out of somebody. I think the grand frailty regarding publication has to do with the concepts and labels of "acceptance" and "rejection." While I know a great deal more about the latter, it's fair to say these summaries both smack of judgment and come loaded enough to make Dolly Parton's work-out bra look like a Frisbee. If your work is "accepted," your husband gets sex; if not, he has to buy his way back into your wounded heart with a gallon of Dryer's (and not that low-fat junk). Defining what is "publishable" should be as baggy as a 2X top on a teenage Twiggy, but you can't get an editor to admit such flexibility exists any better than you can capture the truth at a congressional investigation of Clinton's celebrated sex-life.
I recently sent the same poem to three different journals: one editor said it was "brilliantly written and aurally edible"; the second sent his critique back in MIME format with the suggestion that I buy a special program to "unzip" the puzzle of his inner-thoughts; and the third said, "The piece has its clever places, but contains absolutely no literary merit." Shit, I was passing kidney stones through my pores and looking forward to the Judgment Day, which had to be cooler than the hot-seat of swatted introspection. We pour out the dregs of our lost souls for all the world to see--and get back re-runs of Slaughterhouse Five (minus all traces of Vonnegut's redeeming wit). Some editors confuse "publishable" with "punishable by death" and consider it their job to make you feel like a Ping-Pong ball in a volleyball game. By the time I finished opening all my hate mail, my self-confidence was beginning to look like a pony-pack of petunias at the mercy of a semi-truck.
If editors put their own genitalia on the line once in a while, I think rejection slips would come replete with little pink doilies on their borders and a pot pipe the size of a candy dish. Editorial "pose" is a tricky thing, but it isn't impossible to navigate. You can recognize a flaccid piece of poetry or prose without whacking off emotion's dick. I believe it's called "courtesy." The key to coping with rejection is to take one of two positions: screw you; I'm good or boo-hoo; get out a fifth and we're not talkin' symphonies here. I know writers who have masochistically taped all their rejection slips to the bathroom mirror to remind themselves how it feels to be a roasted pig. When they ran out of room, they added another bathroom. I save all my rejection slips for one week, soak the stack in teriyaki sauce, and feed disappointment to the dog. Those critters love you no matter what.
Rejection Slips
OK. The letter
just sits there,
gaining weight
in the passenger seat.
Starring you down
like polar bears
who wake up
hungry on thin ice.
It sleeps while
your nakedness frets--
ya' peak through
too thick white
to tell if they hated
your guts THAT much!
Your own blue penmanship
addressed the damn thing.
Your wallet bought
its cruel stamp.
Injury beyond
all others--bad news
came with postage due.
So you've no one else
to blame for abortions of faith.
You tell yourself over
and over and over again:
"What's publishable--
a very loose and baggy fit
(a 2X on teenage Twiggy
down the street").
Crop dust settles
in pestilent hope.
Cold, cold snow
from editors--politely
shooting a limping horse.
"Oh Well..." swells
like panty hose beyond
their rubber energy.
Up your ass unpleasantries
inherent to a poet's stance.by Janet I. Buck