I don’t often think about the size of my own ego. Predictably, I openly discuss what I think about this or that person’s ego, but rarely do I acknowledge that I have one of my own. I thought I was pretty humble, pretty down to earth. But it’s not true, really, and I just had that brought home to me.
Last week, a poetry friend emailed me about a live tv show being produced locally – each segment features a poet reading, followed by a Q&A session from the host, as well as viewers who are able to call into the show. This friend suggested I sent the producer some poems, and after viewing the list of previously featured poets, I did. I just heard back this morning from the producer:
“Thanks for your interest in (tv show). I’ll keep you in mind for the future.”
I haven’t been so summarily dismissed in a while. It stings a little.
I suppose it’s a good reminder for me to not be so snarky, or so arrogant. For some reason, rejections from journals never feel this personal. And of course, I recognize that it’s not really personal: I don’t know the producer, and it’s likely he doesn’t know me either. Perhaps what I’m writing isn’t what he likes to read, which I should remember happens sometimes.
But I think I’ve grown accustomed to being accepted rather than rejected, and I feel sort of like an ass now.