America’s Most Rejected

Recently I got the news that a literary journal accepted one of my poems. Now, this is always an occasion for whooping and hollering—any “yes” from any publisher makes me do the happy dance. But this one was special. This particular poem had a dubious distinction: It had been rejected by many, many other literary journals. How many? In the 12 years since I wrote it, it got shot down a whopping 34 times. It was, by far, my most-rejected poem.

The Sigh

Why on Earth, you would be right to ask, did I keep sending that poem out, when so many people clearly thought it sucked? Simple: I did it because it got the sigh.

            The sigh came one night years ago, when I workshopped that poem in a creative writing class. I was asked to read it out loud, and just as I finished the last line, I heard it: the wonderful sound of the woman next to me sighing. It was, you know, that sigh—the one that poets long for, the slightly orgasmic one that tells you that you have something there, a poem that somebody likes so much that it drew a physical reaction out of them. I heard that sigh and I thought, Ooh yeah—that one’s a winner.

            I was off and running, sending that poem out to one top-tier journal after another. In my mind, it was my marquee poem, the best horse in my stable, and no little journal would do. But the months went by and time after time, the poem came limping back home in its scuffed SASE. I kept at it for about five years, sending it out to every top-drawer mag I could think of. Then, perplexed, I gave up and put the poem back in its stall for a rest.

Land of Ten Thousand Revisions

Still, it gnawed at me. Every once in a while I’d take it out and give it a hard look, wondering what the hell was wrong with it. I’d tinker with it, sharpen up a few words. Once, in a pique of minimalism, I got out the big knife and hacked away two-thirds of it. I felt all satisfied until I read that pared-down version a couple of months later and realized I’d cut all the spirit and nuance out of it; all that was left were a few listless lines that even I couldn’t understand. I restored it to its (tinkered, sharpened, revised) longer version and read it again. Crazy thing. I still liked it.

            As time went by, other poems rose to the top of my “send out” list, and that old poem sank farther down and spent more time at home. But it kept bugging me; it was like a hill that I could never quite climb. So about a year ago, I made a conscious decision to change my strategy with it. I still wanted to see that poem out in the world, but I decided it didn’t have to be in Ploughshares. So I started sending it to middle-tier and regional journals, but always ones that I especially liked; I still wanted it to live someplace that I would want to visit when I felt the urge to see it. It became a sport, tucking this poem into the envelope to round out a submission to this small journal or that one. And it still came back a few times, so I added those rejections to the list, filling up four index cards in my Byzantine tracking system. I kept thinking, come on, surely somebody out there will give this poem the sigh, somebody besides me and that woman in that class all those years ago.

            And someone finally did.

Behold

I’ll be delicate here and I won’t say which journal’s editor was kind enough to sigh, or which poem it was. That will come out in time, but right now I don’t want that editor thinking he/she picked up a poop that all those other editors stepped around for all those years. This lovely editor obviously doesn’t think it’s a poop, and friends, I am not about to make him/her think otherwise. Whether it’s a poop or not is all in the eye of the beholder. That’s art.

            Naturally I’m hoping that, after such a long and difficult journey, that poem will find its way into the Pushcart anthology or Best American or whatever. That would be sweet justice, and a damned good story. But for now, I’m just glad it will be out there in the sun, rubbing shoulders with other poems, instead of stamping its foot impatiently in its lonely stall.

Little Things That Editors Hate

A while back, I talked in this blog about that moment when an editor is sitting there looking at two good poems or stories, but she only has room in the journal or anthology for one. She likes them both, but one of them has to get stuffed into its SASE and sent back to the minors. That’s a time when a few polished touches in your submission, like a straightforward bio and a non-scary cover letter, can tip the scale in your favor.

But there’s a dark side to this, and that’s where we’re going now. In my years as an editor, I’ve seen writers shoot themselves in the foot countless times with a bit of attitude or carelessness that probably seemed harmless when they did it, but turned into a deal-breaker when that submission was pitted against another. So, to give your work its best fighting chance out there in the literary trenches, here are a few little submission boners to avoid.

1. Don’t provide the editor with “helpful hints” on how to deal with your submission.

Cover letters can go so wrong, so fast. Sometimes writers get mixed up about who’s doing the writing and who’s doing the editing, and they feel compelled to tell the editor how to do her job. Even a hint of this sort of attitude can scare off an editor. Here are some examples, paraphrased from actual cover letters I’ve seen over the years.

“I think your readers will enjoy these poems.”

A lot of writers use this seemingly innocent phrase. It’s the equivalent of small talk at a cocktail party—I mean, you’ve got to say something to be polite, right? But this line instantly undermines the author’s credibility because it sounds both insincere and slightly arrogant. And it doesn’t say the writer has read the journal; in fact, it makes me suspect that he hasn’t. This writer is better off saying what he admires about the journal—the overall tone, or a poem he liked in a recent issue—proving he’s done his homework. If he hasn’t seen the journal (I don’t condone that, but I know it happens), he might mention something about its website or blog that he liked (because he probably looked at those when he was getting the guidelines). But if you can’t pull that off with honesty, just go the direct route: Avoid the chitchat, and wow the editor with your excellent poem or story.

“Please consider my story and, if you like it, feel free to edit it.”

This is another phrase that sounds sort of polite. But it implies that the author knows the story isn’t quite there—and also implants that idea in the editor’s head. Even worse: “Feel free to edit it down to your maximum length.” That just makes me scratch my head. I start thinking about those ballpoint pen refills that you can cut with a pair of scissors so they fit all kinds of different pens. Remember those? Messy. Inky. And what am I supposed to cut out of this story? The bad parts?

“I have not included an SASE because most publishers respond via e-mail and you should too.”

This is code for “Publish my piece, you stupid Luddite.”

“I have made my story just long enough to fit on three pages of your publication.”

OK, this one’s pretty rare, but it happens. And it’s sort of endearing. I mean, this author has counted up how many words (or, in my OCD fantasies, characters) fit on a page in my journal. And he’s done me the favor of editing it so I won’t have to touch it—it already fits! This puts me in mind of those “starving artist” sales, where you can buy an oil painting for that weird little phone alcove in your hallway, and another for the spot next to the bathroom sink—all for 50 bucks. Who cares what’s on them? They fit perfectly!

2. Don’t scatter your contact information all over your submission.

This one happens a lot. Keep in mind that, at some literary journals, the person who opens the mail is also the person who reads the submissions, at least in the first round. And while a good story or poem will trump any number of gaffes, it’s wise not to piss off this first reader by putting your name at the top of the cover letter, your phone number in the middle, and your e-mail address at the end. That poor editor is probably logging hundreds of entries into a database, and you’ll gum up the works by not making it easy for him. One time when I was logging in several hundred submissions, I found myself frequently barking the m—f word when people didn’t put their name and contact info in the upper left corner and the genre in the upper right, as they were asked to do in the guidelines. I spent hours logging those things in, and I got tired. Tired and mean. I’m just sayin’.

3. If there’s a postmark deadline, don’t mail your submission by Priority Mail, which costs a couple bucks more than First Class.

This is money down the drain. If it’s a postmark deadline, the journal or contest will build in a few extra days for the stragglers to come in—the envelopes that got wedged in the door of the mail truck or delayed by that storm in the Midwest. As long as your letter is postmarked by their deadline, you’re good. Priority Mail and its overnight kin—Express Mail, FedEx, etc.—all carry a hint of desperation and wastefulness that will make your editor a little uncomfortable right off the bat.

4. Don’t forget to include an SASE, or at least an e-mail address and phone number.

I know—who in the world forgets all of these things? It always surprises me, but it does happen sometimes. I can only assume it’s an accident, and I can’t get on my high horse about how stupid it is, because I’ve done some careless things when I was cranking out submissions in a hurry, like sending out simultaneous submissions when I didn’t mean to, and addressing letters to the wrong editor. But this gaffe is a heartbreaker because even if I love your work, I’ll have a hard time contacting you. And you’ll think I’m the world’s worst editor for not even having the decency to send you a rejection. Unhappy faces all around. When I used to kayak a lot, I kept a bonehead checklist by the door—paddle, life vest, and even boat—to keep me from arriving at the lake without the kayak or drowning myself out there. If you’re as forgetful as I am, a Post-It note next to your computer can save you a disaster or two.

5. Don’t use those big Tyvek, polyester, or spun-bonded envelopes that have to be cut open with a pair of scissors.

This is actually my number-one pet peeve about submissions. I hate, hate, hate those big, rip-resistant envelopes and their lumpy cousins, the yellow bubble envelopes. These inventions from hell make me put down the letter opener and sort through all the junk on my desk to find the scissors—which are always far, far away—just to open that one damned submission. You’d think this would only factor into the early envelope-opening, logging-in part of the process. But oh, no—I will remember that submission.

Honorable mentions:

6. Cigarette smell wafting out of the envelope.

7. Not putting enough postage on your submission so it arrives at the publisher with postage due.

8. “I wasn’t sure how many poems we could submit, so I sent both of mine.”
(I actually sort of love this one.)