Since coming out of my depression, now on firm ground for nearly a month, breaking into kilobunnies at times, clean and sober save for my prescribed medications, I have had a return of sanity to my art as well.
I have been guilty in the past of whining in a corner, decrying the state of contemporary poetry, jealous of the successful, feeling my "genius" ignored, yada yada piss bam boom.
I recall a moment of sanity I had once in Palm Springs, where in driving around I noted that over 25% of the cars on the road were Mercedes Benzes. A twinge of jealousy pricked me; why did they have such handsome buggys while I drove a beater? I was a practicing doctor, wasn't I? Then it occurred to me: they had worked for them, budgeted for them, else sacrificed to lease them. In a word, they had earned them. And I hadn't. I hadn't even tried.
Get real, Dr. Chaffin!
Back to poetry. In the same way I have half-heartedly sent out a few submissions now and then, completely inconsistent, the rejections either provoking me to despair at having no talent or to disdain for the editors who lacked the wisdom to perceive my gifts.
I have just completed sending out 40 submissions to paying journals both by snail and electronic mail, depending on the guidelines. To the best of my ability I seriously studied the preferences and examples of each magazine and sought to tailor my submissions to their wants.
This is so elementary that it unfailingly appears in every writer's guidebook in the very first chapters. Instead of listening, I have wasted so much time complaining about the state of poetry that I never tried to get on the bus in earnest. (This attitude did result in some good essays.)
Isn't that how most of us are? Experiencing jealousy over the possessions or accomplishments of others as if someone had waved a magic wand and dropped such things in their laps?
Get real, CE!
The Chinese pictograph for danger is also the symbol for opportunity.
It's been said that "Luck is when preparation meets opportunity."
Wish me luck. I've decided to start behaving as a grown-up when it comes to my art.
Thine in Truth and Art,
Craig Erick
Here's hoping you have 40 acceptances, CE. I like the Munch.
ReplyDeleteI'd be happy with five! And that's a generous estimate, I'd say.
ReplyDeleteGood luck to you. I always thought you worked pretty hard at your art before.
ReplyDelete"I've decided to start behaving as a grown-up .."
ReplyDeleteI don't know, Chaffin, sounds a little drastic to me. Are you sure? Can one do that and still be an eccentric "arteeest'?
40 submissions? At the same time? Sounds a little maniacal if you ask me (and I do realize you didn't ask me).
Blues rules for submitting:
1. Submit to no more than six venues in a year.
2. Submit pieces that follow the venue's general guidelines and the specific issue's instructions.
3. When there's no limit specified, never submit more than six pieces.
4. Submit cover letters & bios of no more than 4 sentences.
5. Never submit to a venue more than once every 3 years.
6. Never submit a second time to a venue that does not acknowledge getting a submission.
7. Never submit a second time to a venue that rejects you.
8. Never submit even once to a venue you KNOW before hand will reject you.
9. Avoid venues that don't believe poetry can happen without paper and ink.
10. Never submit to a venue where the publisher or the poetry editor is a drunk.
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Coveting. There's a commandment about that, right?
-blue
40 submissions? At the same time? Sounds a little maniacal if you ask me.
ReplyDeleteI just do one a day and take Saturdays off. It's easier than you think. It's not like I stay up all night crazed--well, not every night.
Blues rules for submitting:
1. Submit to no more than six venues in a year.
Lazy.
2. Submit pieces that follow the venue's general guidelines and the specific issue's instructions.
Of course.
3. When there's no limit specified, never submit more than six pieces.
I stay with five.
4. Submit cover letters & bios of no more than 4 sentences.
Basically, yes. Why they even want them puzzles me. Why not just poems and an address? As an editor I always ignored bios, which many of the snootier mags want on the front end.
5. Never submit to a venue more than once every 3 years.
No. Anytime you get a handwritten note on a rejection, it's like they're begging you for more!
6. Never submit a second time to a venue that does not acknowledge getting a submission.
Query first
7. Never submit a second time to a venue that rejects you.
Not. Just had oneaccepted where the editor wrote me personally to say how he hated to reject me--I immediately sent him more and he took one. Paying venue.
8. Never submit even once to a venue you KNOW before hand will reject you.
Ah, but who can resist Poetry and The New Yorker once a year? It's like buying a lottery ticket.
9. Avoid venues that don't believe poetry can happen without paper and ink.
Goes without saying. Too bad we can't write them down.
10. Never submit to a venue where the publisher or the poetry editor is a drunk.
Oh no, that's often my only chance! If you make the print of the submission blurry enough, he may have to read it several times.
Coveting. There's a commandment about that, right?
-blue
See my blog on "My Struggle with Literary Narcissism" for more on the tenth commandment!
--CE