another day, another lit mag rejection!

so I’m sharing with you instead

Okay, I’ll admit it— I haven’t put in enough work to earn the right to be upset about the rejection. Honestly, I expected it. I haven’t exactly flooded literary magazines with submissions. It’s no secret that getting published, even after your first couple hundred tries, is rare. I’m also impatient. I spent seven bucks on a poetry submission that promised a 24-hour turnaround, and not even two hours later, they hit me with this bad boy:

r-e-j-e-c-t-e-d!

“Regretfully.”

Thanks, Jon. I’m sure your regret runs about as deep as a Petri dish. At least he managed to offer some positive, albeit vague, feedback: “striking, interesting, powerful, raw.”

I get it—my poems weren’t their cup of tea. Honestly, I didn’t even bother to check what kind of work they usually publish. Note: Always check, unless the lit mag clearly states that they take any and everything. I went in blind, tempted by the cheap promise of honest feedback within a day instead of waiting six months like most paid submissions. (Six months is equivalent to an eternity in lit mag years, btw).

Rejection doesn’t mean you suck at writing—or whatever it is you love to do. Trust me, rejection has been a recurring theme in my life, and not just in my writing, so I’m no stranger to it. That said, there are times when I really do suck at writing. I’ll revisit some of my old pieces and cringe so hard— not because they were inherently terrible, but because my emotions were overwhelmingly strong, and my ability to describe them just…wasn’t.

My thoughts:

And then there’s wonderful readers like Grace who remind me that people actually enjoy my melancholic ramblings, making my heart burst with renewed hope and joy:

As a writer, it’s nearly impossible not to feel the wave of disappointment flood through your veins when you read the opening of a rejection email. No matter how many rejections you’ve faced, the sting hits just as sharp as the first time.

Am I devastated by it? No. Disappointed? Of course. But I’m learning to take all things with a grain of salt. You may never know why some things unfold the way they do— and that’s not a terrible thing. When I read the email, I shrugged, took a screenshot, and decided to share it with you, my dear reader.

I know there will be plenty more rejection letters in the future—I’m not naïve to that. It’s a healthy awareness, one that keeps me humble.

Writing is ever-evolving, and so are you. Rejection, if you let it, will make you a better writer. It pushes you to step outside yourself and try something new—whether that’s experimenting with a different writing style or submitting to publishers you hadn’t considered before.

There’s always something good to be found in someone not wanting to publish your work. In fact, they might even be doing you a favor without even realizing it.

I had planned to submit my poems to another lit mag, but honestly, I can always write more poems. Frankly, I don’t think I would have submitted these again anyway. I’ll write something better, because that’s what consistent writers do: they write more and they get better.

So, to ensure they don’t get lost in my archives of lost words, I’ve decided to share them with you. They’ll live here, on Substack, and maybe they’ll find a good home in the heart and mind of someone who appreciates them and finds inspiration within them.

As Jon so graciously mentioned in the closing of his email, I encourage you to:

Be well. Be creative.

And I’ll add one more thing, dear dreamer:

Be patient.

Your time will come.

-k.a.

dormant

when hunger comes

I starve the monster that lies

inside—

dormant

while guilt gnaws at the threshold

Blind eyes make mute hearts

where things unseen and unsaid

Where old habits won’t die until you do

mosaic

Am I a mosaic

of everyone I’ve ever known?

or am I my own to love and to hate

To blame myself for all the mistakes

I’ve ever made

What if

heartbreak made me

into the monster that I am

What if

love made me soft and naive

What if

my laugh is from my father

and my tears from my mother

What if

who I am is not who I am at all?

flowers

The sun shines on your flowers again—

the kind you like

the kind you used to buy at the market

around the corner

I replaced the old brown stems with fresh pink petals—

the kind you picked when you wanted someone

to love you back

The sun shines on your flowers—

the ones in fresh dirt

the ones that lay on their side and tell you that world cries without you

The sun shines on the gray stone—

the one with your name engraved on it

the one with the dates

that say when you came and when you went

That stone behind the flowers you like—

the ones you used to buy at the market

burn with you

I follow your ghost around the corner

because I want to burn with you

To feel the lick of the flames on my bones

To let them char under your heated gaze

I would do anything

to fill myself with the tainted parts of you

To lose myself in you

To become a ghost while chasing you

So keep coming to him who is the Living Stone —though he was rejected and discarded by men but chosen by God and is priceless in God’s sight.

‭‭1 Peter‬ ‭2‬:‭4‬, TPT‬‬

Authors Note:

My heart feels strained, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s too full of good things, causing the pressure to build up to the point where I feel uncomfortable— like overeating and then trying to lie down after. I made it through another month of writing— this one being the most busy writing month of the year. I feel accomplished but emotionally exhausted. When people talk about writing as pouring out your soul, I truly believe it’s more than just a metaphor— it’s the most literal truth. There have been many moments when the weight of words feels unusually heavy, leaving little room for anything else like working out spending a generous amount of time outdoors. I’ve had to give myself larger doses of grace this season, when my mind feels inspired but the cold weather leaves my body feeling lazy. Still, I finished November strong, and the creative in me is proud. That has to count for something, right?

Quotes that made me feel something: