Sunday, January 18, 2015


I couldn’t miss the small flat envelope, my only mail on Saturday.

I had just come from a writing critique group where one of my poems had received much praise. A member there had invited me to join a new group, just forming. I left feeling validated as a writer.

But there it was, self-addressed and stamped, a tiny envelope that could have been lost had it arrived on junk mail day. Poor little thing!

I knew before I opened it.

“Where is this from?” I muttered, not thinking to look at the postmark for clues. Instead,I marveled at how neatly I had printed my name and address in both to and from spaces.

Slicing it open, I found a half-sheet rejection letter tucked inside, one more to add to my collection.

Disappointing, especially this one, from a journal produced in Corvallis, Oregon. I had been sure they would like at least one of my poems, carefully selected to reflect my years in the Northwest.

But no, my submission “does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time.” I wonder to myself how one can divine those needs in order to meet them. I’ve read the journal and checked online for direction.

I sigh, and slide it into my expanding rejection folder. Maybe next time.

No comments:

Post a Comment