Knowing When to Walk Away
Or these journals just are not into you...
Hi. It’s been a while. Been busy , but also haven’t felt like I’ve had much of anything to say. But over the past two weeks, I’ve made some decisions about journals I will no longer send work to. Not because they have anything wrong with them, but because I feel I have sent my best to them numerous times (sometimes over years) and have never received more than a form no, thank you.
What’s that old saying about doing the same thing and expecting a different result?
I think that applies here, but this pulling back also says something about how I’m feeling about writing in general. I currently have two full manuscripts (one hybrid/one poetry) in circulation looking for homes, but I don’t have any particular project or idea that I am currently writing toward, and I’m floundering a bit, which always leads to questions. One of these began to nag at me: when there are journals out there who seem to appreciate and understand what I’m doing, why do I keep submitting to the ones who clearly are not into me, despite the fact that my work would seem to fit their aesthetic? (I never send lyric narratives to experimental journals, for example.)
Po-biz credibility? Maybe. Money? I doubt it. I’ve made very little money from poetry over the last 20 years—that can’t be it. A sense of belonging, to feel that my poems are “worth” as much as the names that get attention and big pubs? Probably the most likely reason. Searching for validity for my work from outside forces is, I know, a questionable and ridiculous practice, but one that is hard to shake.
I made a deal with myself some time ago that my 60th year (which just recently came to a close) would mark the end of my submissions to Poetry Magazine if I hadn’t cracked that market by then. A rejection from them just after my 61st birthday put a bow on that one, and I felt fine about it. Even relaxed. So why not stop with the handful of other journals who consistently send form rejections and never take a poem? So I made a list this week of journals that I am considering dead markets FOR MY WORK, and it was liberating.
When I mentioned this on Twitter, I got all kinds of responses ranging from “Good for you!” to “No! Don’t quit!” I don’t view this as quitting. Quitting would mean I would stop submitting altogether, which despite my current drafting drought, I am not prepared to do.
Thus the title of this post.
Crossing these journals off my list is akin to “walking away” —from a food that will make my stomach protest, from a conversation that is clearly not including me, from a party that is too loud and blaring terrible music. None of those things will kill me, but I am so much happier and more comfortable if I do not partake in them. To overwork the metaphor, I’m looking for a carrot cake that makes me willing to be overfull, an easy, laughter-filled back and forth with a friend, a party where people can hear each other speak and still enjoy a killer playlist.
And, there are plenty of journals in the sea. Or something like that, right?