2020-12-12 Poetic Rejection

I woke up at 4:30. Wrote a reply to Mr. SCC, feeling enough time had passed and some response was the best course. If only I could say what I want without giving the wrong impression. And why I worry about that is mysterious to me. I’m my own worst conundrum.

I went back to bed at 7am and there was a response to my reply in my in-box the next time I checked at 8. Not sure what to make of that but then I try to remember my mindset from a few days ago. About A person being judged for all the things they didn’t do, but could have done with their life. And believing in the innocence (And necessity) of human connection.

The day I wrote about that I sited three scenarios I was struggling with. Struggling in the sense of not knowing what action to take or not take. Responding to SCC, a man that’s a judge in California and also a complete stranger, was one of those.

Another was how to handle the issue of white dudes using our “no fee for BIPOC” writers submission portal for the GLR lit mag. Good grief already!

What I did with that was employ a “terms” condition that the submitter has to acknowledge by clicking through. I struggled with how to word that, trying to be both PC and also mindful of people’s experience or understanding. Thinking on it now, I might tweak that a little more, but feel pretty good about it.

Part of that task involved some research so that I would be, myself, more educated in the terms I was using. I could write a whole post about just that and without being too verbose… avoiding all potential land mines feels like an impossibility. We’re each as diverse in our opinions as we are in our DNA.

In any case.. what I wrote will have to be good enough for now.

The third of the three scenarios was with my friend who might be in trouble. (Which I have no way to know for sure if he is).. That’s been put to rest for now too. Taking advice from Jim, a little distance is best and so I was severely delayed in my reply. I actually didn’t reply. But he reached out to me again asking when we could “hang out.” So my reply was forced.

How does one appear cordial while at the same time flipping on an invitation that was originally extended? As delicately as possible I suppose. But I have to respect my husbands advise.

In other news I have another poem up today (yesterday actually). Another that is near and dear to my heart: “Pockets Full of Rocks.” Not only did it come from moments of reflection about my childhood (which extends well into my first marriage) but also one that I worked on with mentors during my MFA.

It takes some measure of distance to separate oneself from the emotional attachments. There was a time that I could not read the last stanza of this one without pause and an immediate lump in my throat.

As it is with this blog sometimes I write through lots of fluff before I get to the heart of the matter. Not that the first two stanzas don’t have merit. They do. It’s a setting of place and tone. Details of the speaker establishing time and frame of reference.

It’s the detail of the last stanza that get me. You know, but just because of the personal nature. I recognize that those details hold little to no meaning for an outsider looking in. I know, however, that trey would be immediately recognizable by my ex-husband.

I actually thought about sharing the poem with him. You know, in the spirit of human connection, but what purpose would that serve really? My own selfish need for acknowledgment? I dunno. More poetic rejection.

Some part of me would like to believe he would appreciate knowing that somewhere in the hundreds of poems I’ve written he makes at least one appearance. Eeeek. That might actually be an insult. Just one poem? 18 damn years together and all there is is one stinking poem?!

JK. I wrote a bunch of poems when we were dating and first married. Interestingly not a lot were directly about him though. And there’s a total of zero which are fit for human consumption. 🤣

Anyway so this poem is posted on a blog called “Sad Girl’s Club.”  It fits. https://www.sadgirlsclublit.com/post/pockets-full-of-rocks-shyla-shehan

Another baby finds a home. By now I suppose I should be updating my personal website, but not really feeling it.

New stuff is going out lately too. I’ve followed some advice/guidelines on publishing and completely tossed others.

Yes… I research. Revise. Put thought into letters and make sure what I’m sending fits with the vibe (hence the sad girls club).

No… I haven’t workshopped the new pieces or asked for opinions from fellow writers. I’m just stuck in the hole of 2020 and honestly don’t want to impose.

If I’m crumbling and don’t have time or inclination to make or keep plans, it’s a sure bet others are in the same boat.

No… I haven’t waited on sending these new poems out. They are new. I’m in love and need to squeeze that feeling for the courage-aid.

As I update my spreadsheet of submissions I come across several I sent about three weeks ago and cringe. So bad. So so so so bad! But in the dewy eyes of newness I believed they were amazing. Double Cringe. Whatever. It’s just another rejection waiting to happen and I’m immune to that. I really am!

Here all along I thought my super hero name was “captain obvious” and my Special power was being invisible. Little did I know my invisibility also makes me immune to poetic rejection. Just the poetic kind mind you.

I’m still a wilting flower when it comes to other types of rejection. Relationship-y rejection being the worst. I think this is why I’m so sensitive to the perception of others. I don’t want anyone to feel rejected. Not if I can help it anyway.


Well I’ve started and stopped walking and writing about 7 times today. I’m hopeful it doesn’t show in the flow of what this has become. It probably has, but I’ve no patience for reading and editing right now. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do.

Just Keep Stepping,
~Miss SugarCookie

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