Rejection\Acceptance
By Courtney Essary Messenbaugh
Originally written November 2020
This is not a story about 2020 and its discontents; at least not in the way we’re all so accustomed at this point. However, it does start in January of 2020, when I wrote down the following goal: I would submit at least three poems a month to literary publications. Small, but achievable, exactly how I like my goals.
Prior to that moment, I’d spent years jotting down disheveled words in scattered notebooks, hoping they’d someday morph into complete literary pieces that sang. I had taken one formal poetry class and being a writer had long been an aspiration that I dared not even utter because it involved risk and possible, even probable, failure. My life had theretofore been the result of a series of actions based on what I felt was expected of me and what would provide income and consistency. I had gotten a good education and followed a path of sensibility and safety, but had never taken the time to think about what really made me tick or what would truly sustain me.
Adulthood has a knack for kidnapping dreams sometimes and I had let it take off with several of mine. But, as I inched toward middle age, I began to contemplate the value of my time and knew that I needed to make some changes. I had spent much of my adult life with Stockholm syndrome, entranced by the gleam of superficial expectations and status, but never fulfilled, and knew it was time to try to rescue my dreams that still lingered.
Writing was scary because it was new. I was unproven, a total novice. Comfort and perceived expertise were not crutches on which I could rely. It was humbling and incredibly uncomfortable, but I began to reject the notion that failure was not an option. Failure was exactly the option I needed to start breaking free of the captors that had held me hostage for so long. I decided to reject my old way of looking at the world and start writing. In this sense, my writing was born of rejection.
Although the rejection of my own stale worldview felt like a triumphant way to leap into a writing career, the rejection of my actual writing was something altogether different. As I began to submit poems, I became intimately involved with this other sort of rejection. My poetry—those carefully honed pieces of me that I had put onto the page—were being denied left and right. For example, I’ve so far submitted a total of 94 poems this year and received exactly two acceptances. That’s about a 98% rejection rate. If I were in school, I’d have an A+ in Rejection.
Initially, all of this rejection felt personal. It felt like a referendum on the validity of my innermost thoughts and ideas. It even felt like a referendum on who I am as a person. It roused that lifelong voice that’s always casually simmering with “Am I enough? Am I good enough?” and turned it into a loud and consistent chorus. That voice really starts to bellow when I read other poets’ work. There are some poets writing today whose work is miraculous, whose work I will never match.
And that’s OK. The more I read of them, the more I want to create.
As time has gone on this year (and my goodness, time has gone on and on and on!), I have begun to meet my rejections with acceptance. The very thing I want—external acceptance—is the very thing I need to internally embrace. Now, all of these rejected poems later, I remember the buoyancy of the two acceptances and even have held on to several of the more personal and kind rejections. I’m living a duality of rejections: the kind it took for me to start writing and the kind I get about my writing.
As I move into this rejection\acceptance mindset, I have come to rely on two virtues: patience + persistence. Both have turned out to be quite useful in 2020 (for all kinds of reasons, you might relate . . .), and I know I will need them just as much, maybe even more, in 2021. I recently walked away from the safe, income-giving job I had been clinging to for the past 13 years and am going to throw more of myself and my time into writing this new year. I’m terrified. But I’m open. Rejection will be the proof that I’m trying. Persistence will be the way I tell myself to keep writing, keep rewriting, keep reading, keep learning, keep submitting, keep expanding. Persistence will be the muscle memory that every rejection is a tiny step toward possibility.
Not getting rejections, would mean that I’m not trying. And if I’m not trying, then there doesn’t seem to be much point of anything. Trying is enough. I am enough. And some days, I’m even starting to believe that.
Courtney Essary Messenbaugh currently lives in Colorado and delights in the blanket of neon blue sky there. Her work has appeared in the Yellow Arrow Journal and FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art. You can find her on Instagram @courtneyessary and Twitter @courtney_essary.
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