On one hand, when your work is passed over in favour of something clearly inferior to it you can console yourself by reasoning that what you were offering just wasn't what they were looking for at all. On the other hand, you can stew over the fucking $500 prize that'll go to some sap with a tin ear and a waterballoon for a heart.
It's official, kids, yet another rejection. The forum: a poetry competition held by the alumni society of my second alma mater and adjudicated by some respectable talent. I had some inkling I was out of the running while ago, but I hadn't heard for certain either way. The teensy flame of hope is now extinguished.
And while the winning entry offends my aesthetic sensibilities, my sense of justice recoils at the award going to someone who's involved in an administrative capacity with an international literary prize and probably won't make a single valuable connection from this because he already Knows People and could get himself a mentor faster than he could lick a stamp.
Fuck. Just, fuck. Dear world, why don't you just piss off?
The winner.
It's official, kids, yet another rejection. The forum: a poetry competition held by the alumni society of my second alma mater and adjudicated by some respectable talent. I had some inkling I was out of the running while ago, but I hadn't heard for certain either way. The teensy flame of hope is now extinguished.
And while the winning entry offends my aesthetic sensibilities, my sense of justice recoils at the award going to someone who's involved in an administrative capacity with an international literary prize and probably won't make a single valuable connection from this because he already Knows People and could get himself a mentor faster than he could lick a stamp.
Fuck. Just, fuck. Dear world, why don't you just piss off?
The winner.
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I didn't think so.
(Btw, maybe you can tell me why every academic prose/poetry I've seen in the past ten years has to do with memories of one's dead/dying mother/father....at a lake?)