A few days ago a good looking UPS man knocked on my door. He was holding a package. A package from New York City.
I grabbed it and tore it open with my teeth. Okay, that's a lie. I cut it was my dulled Walmart scissors. But no matter, because inside were my galley proofs.
My novel. And it's a real book! A bit of a naughty book, but a Real. Book. With chapters and everything.
I was so excited that I cried. Then I drove my galley proofs around town and showed people. "See," I said. "It's a real book." (Like the Velveteen Rabbit, my book only became real when I actually held it in my greedy hands.)
The very next day, there was a rejection letter waiting in my email box.
This happens every single time I get puffed up about my writing. Something inevitably slaps me down. I think this is karma. I worrythat I was a critic in a former life.
Anyway, the Plume Poetry Journal doesn't want the poems I sent them. Which is a shame, because I love their journal. (I'm very choosey about where I send my work. I only submit to places that feel like home, journals and magazines that hit me hard and make me want to curl around them and take them to bed.)
But Daniel over at Plume sent me the most wonderful rejection letter. He wrote, and I quote: "You are a fine poet." While my work wasn't right for them, he was sure the poems would be picked up soon. "Our loss," he said.
This is a big deal because poets in the current Plume issue have been published in the New Yorker and The American Poetry Review. Heady credentials.
Thanks, Daniel. You broke my heart but kinda swelled my head, which is a fair and balanced combination, no?