It could have been a contender for one of the crappiest rejections ever.
I received an email message that my poem had been accepted for publication in a review. But the title of the poem didn't look familiar. Did I write it so long ago and send it out so long ago that I didn't remember it? How embarrassing. Gwen Head once wrote, "Mes poems sont mes enfants." My poems are my children. Had I forgotten a child?
After looking high and low for some trace of this mysterious work, I sent a sheepish response and received my reply this morning: I was sent that acceptance by mistake.
That took the wind out of my sails, and I'll admit that I felt mopey and pretty snippy, too.
But then, all kinds of nice things were happening. Friends were calling, sending email, stopping by. I finished a project that I'd been putting off. I started another project that I enjoy. I pondered words for today's poem. I had fun, and then I got to ride my bike home and it wasn't even raining.
In the middle of so much goodness, I read this on Debra Jarvis's site. A good reminder, and it made me laugh.
I heard again from the aforementioned publisher, and they accepted another poem (one that I did write). So I enjoyed a fabulous day with very minimal wallowing, and in the end one of my poems found a home after all.
Now, if only my back wasn't complaining from that little bike ride...