It finally happened. I’ve had poetry accepted and published. Did it help my negative perceptions of my poetry? No.
I have never written a poem that I liked for more than four hours. Those four hours occur directly after I’ve written the poem. By hour five, I never want to see it again.
I realize it’s “normal” that writers doubt their abilities from time to time. My problems only seem to exist in the realm of poetry. I still love about 90% of my fiction, and whether the pieces are published matters not at all. I either believe in my work, or not so much–but with poetry, it’s always a plummet from extreme satisfaction to “Why in hell did I write this crap?” The love cannot be rekindled.
It’s a good thing I’m over the fear of what people will think of my work. However, I admit I’m happy my poetry selections (haiku, of all things) are only available to a small audience, most of whom don’t have time to read. No regrets, though. Published is published.
I could very easily overthink this toxic relationship. Poetry is generally meant to reveal deeper levels of a person. Is this a tinge of self-loathing remaining from my adolescence? On the other hand, fiction reveals the author, and I’m happy to lay that out in the sun for anyone. And on the third hand that I don’t even have, I think my capacity for emotional investment in anyone else’s judgment of my work disappeared completely after the fortieth or fiftieth rejection. Therefore, whatever the problem with poetry is, it simply is.
All that to say, I finally got a group of poems published. I can check that off the list.
