At any rate, Rod never asked me to read general submissions for him again, and I was busy enough never to seek another chance. Also a problem: I was solidly well-read in early-to-mid-20th century verse, but my knowledge of contemporary verse was spotty. As an aspiring poet, this horrified me–how could I ever shine in these realms of gold? I suspect my competitive reaction made me a bad reader, but I was also, in those days, much less sure of my own taste and likely to be overly-influenced by the biases of other poets and critics (not unlike other young screeners at some journals now, maybe). It was clear that certain cliche-ridden lines centered on the page in flowery purple ink were not contenders, but much of the work was good.
Everything was paper then, and I remember sifting submissions at home by lamplight. When I was newer at W&L–hired as a scholar, but writing poetry always–I once picked up a batch of poems to screen for Shenandoah‘s previous editor, R. My earlier forays into editing were less heartening. I’ve definitely felt that connection with certain editors who reject my work with personal notes like “admired these” or “came close.” But being on the other side makes it more vivid, and it cheers me. I’m sure some journal readers are burnt-out or ego-tripping, but I’m inclined to guess magazine editors are often a good audience–smart about the field and in love with the art. I am moved, entertained, impressed, and intrigued by far more work than Shenandoah can accept.
Turns out there’s some good news about rejection I never really grasped before. I’m reading poetry for Shenandoahin earnest now and realizing rejected poems DO reach sympathetic readers, at least if you send them to well-edited magazines: the editors and staff readers themselves.