Yesterday, I submitted my poems to other publications. They’re not the regular unknowns (like my own MORASS a few years back) that would accept just anything to fill space. These are the ones that receive thousands of unsolicited contributions and discard more than they accept. I’m under no delusion that my work will be accepted by these publications but if I’m going to receive my first rejection letter, I want it to be from someone credible enough to hit me with it. Nah, scrap that; in truth, I’m harboring delusions that the editors of these magazines will be so enamored of my work (and, consequently, with me) that they will want to meet and offer me a writing job. What rejection letter? I’ll be praised profusely. Sadly, I may have to say no to some of them.
Meanwhile, the conscience speaks, and it tells me to be realistic. Writers more experienced than I have received rejection letters. In fact, the rejections most likely account for the “experienced” part. The reality of it is why I’ve been hesitant to make my writing life more than a fact known to just my private journals and closest friends. However, I’m incensed that the world knows of some shitty-shit-shits such as Fifty Shades of Grey and similar works that have seen the light of day because most readers have stopped being discerning. (The characters in formulaic romance novels of the Mills and Boon variety have more depth than 50. Yup, I read them, too.) This isn’t about us, readers, but no, who am I kidding? Make the good books the bestsellers, why don’t you? I know sex sells but let’s not put poorly written, grammatically fucked pieces on top of any list.
The long and short of it is I’m now prepared to receive my rejection letters because it looks as if the world has lost its senses. Enter Mylene, just half-shitty. The literary world can only get better by ushering me in. You can shower me with all the rejection letters you can print, but I’m not going anywhere.