It wasn't really so terrible. I entered a poem in a contest. How this contest works is whoever enters becomes a judge. So for three weeks, I was a judge, a part of other people rejections, I guess you could say. But also a part of other people's winnings. Once a week I got an email that told me to "log into sixfold and check my dashboard" And there would be six poems waiting for me, to read, comment and rate from one through six.
I read a lot of really good poetry, and some I didn't like as much, but for some reason I always felt bad when I rated someone as 6th. The people who read my poem had no such reservations. I didn't even make it past the first round of voting, which means that four out of the six people reading my poem rated me as 6th place. Some of the comments had good critiques, things that could help me improve, such as "make a concrete storyline" and "decide what you're trying to say."
But there was this one comment, this one jibe that shattered me, and all it said was this:
"too abstract, no story."
Insert sound of glass shattering, of babies crying, of a gunshot, of a bomb exploding a city. This comment pretty much ruined me. So yesterday after I read that I slammed lockers and ripped up flowers and swung on swings rather violently. I know that rejection is part of being a writer. I know that. But it still isn't any fun. But the fact that I am writing about this so soon means that I will be able to scrape myself up from off the pavement and continue on, with one more layer of armor around my little scribbled writer heart.
