I don’t bother keeping track of my rejections because there are so many. If I could, I would turn them into colored bubbles and make myself a pool of plastic balls, and play in it. Or, if I printed them all out and kept the letters, I could probably shred them and fill up a beanbag and sit in it. This month, I started submitting my work (sort of in a lazy manner) to journals again. I guess I couldn’t get enough of the high of being rejected, after being turned down by 12 schools, and a lovely 6-year history of consistent non-awesomeness and bad poetry randomly/infrequently broken by a great lining up of the spheres. But, I want to toast my rejections. I like them because they make me feel like I exist. Not as much as good news, but maybe half as much, and of course the amount of rejections far exceeds twice that of acceptances, so in totality, being rejected contributes most to my feeling of existence.
image by =alone-maggie