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Joe Dolce
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Wheat From Chaff

It is impossible to sell animal stories in the USA.
—Rejection note for Animal Farm, by George Orwell

It can be a frustrating and soul destroying experience fielding rejection after rejection from publishers or submitting endless pieces to competitions and contests just to see them ignored or overlooked—often in favour of work you feel is inferior to yours.

There are ways to develop the thick skin necessary to endure the process of soliciting publication without losing the delicate skin required to create something beautiful. Ray Bradbury suggested treating a rejection slip as nothing more than a wrong address: in other words, keep sending the pieces out to others—if you believe in the work—until you find the right address.

Very few of us will have to endure the kind of insulting replies that Vladimir Nabokov got for Lolita:

‘...overwhelmingly nauseating, even to an enlightened Freudian… the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy. It often becomes a wild neurotic daydream… I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years,’

I will admit I have often had criticism of this nature. A song cycle of fifteen of CP Cavafy’s poems that I set to music, which I consider one of my personal best achievements, earned this review from a music critic:

This was grandly proclaimed as a song cycle to poems of CP Cavafy. None of the poems' sensuousness were evident; indeed much of the music could well have accompanied a description of a retired matron changing a nappy.

I could tell by this comment that this particular critic had never changed a nappy because the children with nappies full of poo, that I have personally changed, are appreciative and always in a better mood afterwards. The irony here is that the acclaimed English translator of these poems, Dr. Rae Dalven, loved what I had done enough to take my musical settings to Greece to give to Cavafy’s heir— who also loved them. So whose opinion should I value more: the smart-mouth critic, or the actual translator and direct heir of the poet himself?

Most editors are failed writers—but so are most writers. –T.S. Eliot

Often I try to put myself on the other end of the whip hand, and try trying to imagine what it is like to have to sift through hundreds, even thousands of poetry and story submissions, many from people you know, and decide which ones to use and which ones to send back. I don’t envy this job but I do envy the editor that can do it gracefully. Les Murray is one. He takes quite a few of my poems for publication, but I actually enjoy getting rejection notes from Les, when they come, because he is so gracious in the way he rejects. Usually he’ll write something like: ‘I can’t like any of these.’ Sometimes he makes little notes on the poems which give me clues as how he would improve them. Occasionally, he’ll say it’s not right for him, but suggest another magazine that might be more appropriate. This kind of personal touch is a refreshing change from the usually silent treatment, 3-6 month waiting queue, or mechanical form letters that many big publishers use.

Of course, it’s not realistic for the mega-huge magazines in the US to offer the personal touch, some of which receive 10,000 submissions a month or more. It’s a business for them and it needs to be a business for you. So it comes back to cultivating that thick/thin skin ratio. I like this quote that I keep on my desk:

An insult or a rejection is like an arrow aimed at your heart but falling at your feet. You can choose not to pick it up and stab yourself with it. —Anon

Many competitions, and publishers prefer the blind method of sorting through submissions. You are not permitted to put your name on the work. Works are read without knowledge of the author and supposedly chosen on their merit alone. This is said to create a fairness and objectivity. The established writers get the same shake as the non-professionals.

Thing is, I’ve been on both sides of the fence, and given the excruciating politics in the poetry world, the intense sensitivity of feelings, the pervasive opinions that permeate our culture about ‘who’ is good, because they’ve been relentlessly published, or won all manner of awards, I can tell you that the utter relief of not knowing who you’re dealing with helps the stronger poems to stand out and be counted, regardless of their author. And yes, there is still the limitation of subjectivity around what is, and is not, poetry.

The blind method of choosing poetry or stories is interesting in theory but, in practice, usually results in pretty much the same fundamental limitation: so much still depends on the personal taste of the judge, or judges, doing the reading. Not only their taste, but also their particular philosophy about what constitutes good writing. One judge’s good writing is another judge’s bad writing.

I have had feedback from submissions saying my poetry is too much like prose, others saying my prose is too much like poetry. Many magazines insist you read a copy of their publication before submitting so you get a feel for what they are looking for. How much clearer can you get? In other words, it may not be about the quality of your work at all— – it may simply be that it is not what they are looking for. This is what Ray Bradbury meant by a ‘wrong address’.

Also, unless there is a rigid and mechanical set of guidelines, such as: ten lines, thirty words, on the theme of bedbugs, typed in 10 point Times font, single spaced, deadline: November 3, at 5 pm —there will be a Pandora’s Box of writing to sort through. Even with those tight guidelines, you would still have a wild and varied pile. Can you imagine doing this month after month? It is not just writers who are driven to drink.

For sanity’s sake, I keep a list of all the poems I have submitted to various publications, and a separate list for all the ones rejected by one editor but accepted by another. I call this folder: ‘Selections Previously Known as Rejections.’ This is an very interesting experiment. I have had poems rejected by Quadrant accepted by Meanjin, and poems rejected by Meanjin accepted by Quadrant; poems rejected by both Quadrant and Meanjin, accepted by Overland; poems rejected by one magazine, and, with a single word change, accepted by another; poems rejected one year and resubmitted a year later and accepted by the same editor and, the same magazine; pieces rejected by every Australian publisher but published in the US. It is all about being in the right place at the right time with the right piece. Alter even one of these variables and the cards will fall a completely different way.

There is no perfect fool proof way to offer poetry to an editor. I believe the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey blindfold method of poetry tasting, or wine tasting (I was a ‘celebrity’ wine judge once!) is the best for utter fairness in open competitions.

In addition, as serious writers, what we are really looking for is an advocate: someone who believes in our work and will, therefore, look HARDER at what we send, rather than merely separating wheat from chaff. But, we should not expect to find advocates for our work in poetry competitions or contests. By advocate, I also mean someone who will stand up for our work to those others who either don’t see it, or are unaware of it, or perhaps are even hostile to the value of our work. To find these advocates we must look elsewhere.

Firstly, we can turn to the people who love us and in whom we confide in the most often; that is fundamental. My own partner Lin has been the strongest advocate for my work— in music, writing, photography and cooking— of anyone I know. And usually before my work ever sees the light of day. Often before I even know it myself. She helps me separate the wheat from the chaff by helping keep me focused on my higher vision for myself, when I can sometime give over too much to cynicism, bitterness, boys-own humour, irony or downright bitchiness.

A good editor, too, will argue our own case with us, to help us tighten up the work, separating the wheat from the chaff, by reining in our tendency to waffle on, or drift off point. How many times have we attempted a 1,500 word essay and suddenly found our word count up to 5,000 words before we have even gotten out of our pyjamas? A sharp editor does more than spotting our own typos. They can also help us remove what I call the snow-blindness we get from staring at white pages too long, or blank screens, that can prevent us from seeing when our opinions start to drift off into personal therapy.

The agent is also an kind of advocate who will tell us straight if our manuscript is marketable and, if they believe in our work, they can argue our case to a publisher and the publisher, in turn, can promote our case in the commercial arena. Also, a financial advance, or fee, doesn’t hurt. How many advocates do you know who pay you? (The justice system might work a lot differently if lawyers had to pay clients).

Submitting works for publication—or choosing and editing submissions for publication — is hard work any way you cut it. Keep the faith! It’s hard for the editor or publisher selecting work, but it’s hard keeping the thick/thin skin required to keep doing one’s work and putting it out there. Remember, Elizabeth Jolley said she could wallpaper her house with the rejection slips she received and, though she wrote all her life, she didn’t get her first work published until she was fifty.

But it is necessary work.

Ray Bradbury also wrote:

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.