Wednesday, July 09, 2003

Whiskey on an empty stomach

I got a rejection letter from Gulf Coast Review yesterday. It wasn't even a real letter: it was a strip of paper with the word "regretfully" emblazoned in the text... apparently, they run off a bunch of those, fitting several rejection letters on one sheet of paper. Very economical. I'll always treasure my commemorative Gulf Coast rejection bookmark.

What kills me is that I really thought I had a shot at this magazine. I don't suffer from any delusions of grandeur, but I thought my writing was pretty comparable to what they publish. Jack tried to make me feel better by saying, "Hey, it's no big deal. Just resubmit!" He also pointed out that "maybe the wrong person read it," so I should send in more poems on the off chance that the next editor is a huge fan of sarcastic gay poetry with good one-liners.

I know I shouldn't see this as a setback, but I really, REALLY wanted this. On the St. Mark's Poetry Project web site, it says, "The best poets will never be published," so right now I'm pretending that the Gulf Coast editors are too dull and mundane to truly understand the metaphysical undercurrents of my work. (Note to self: add metaphysical undercurrents to that poem I wrote about Henry Rollins' pecs, just to show up the Gulf Coast editors.)

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