Soon, I’ll be posting the poem, The Fourth.
It’s original title was “Phoenix” and it’s one of the rejected poems… but who cares?
It’s one of the ‘no, we can’t accept your works right now.’
I’ve sent some poems and fiction works. Of course, some were accepted, some not. That’s the perks of sending your works out there, of attempting to reach more readers, of writing. Nope. Maybe, not writing. Writing and then publishing are two different things, right?
Rejection, even in its most sugar-coated version, stings. I’m humbled by how human and petty I felt as I went through the rejection sting. I didn’t sound like a whining child. This version of me just… let’s the feeling get her. Grab her by its grubby hands. Shake her and mock her until her inflated ego bleeds…
Back to the rejected work. I still wanted it out of my non-published list. So I took the rejection as a cue that edits could still somehow save “Phoenix” from its burning, dying state (pun intended).
Perhaps, I should be thankful for the rejection? It’s not like we always get the chance to change what we did. Or wrote. LOL.