One of these days, I need to pull out Mom’s “rejection folder” for a blog post. Yes, she kept the rejection letters she received from magazine editors over the years.

Rejection. Who needs that?!

But Mom never gave up. She kept mailing out those hand-typed poems, knowing her work was good.

Once in a while, there’d be hand-written feedback in the margins of those letters, written by kind editors who no doubt understood the pain of rejection.

Back in the late 1940s, Mom and Dad were both editors of their college literary magazines. They delighted in exchanging their publications and discussing their challenges and successes.

One time, Dad made the mistake of thinking Mom had sent him a draft copy, asking for feedback. It was the final copy, though, and by the time she received his letter full of helpful feedback, it was too late to change anything.

I haven’t come across the letter she wrote him (maybe it was a phone call), but his response to her was quite apologetic.

Dad told me it was a long while before Mom again offered up a poem’s draft for feedback. (Talk about offer it up, right?)

Twenty years ago, Mom wrote this poem. It took nearly two years, and now that I know the backstory I can understand why.

Entrée

I lay the poem on the dining room table
for you to read
an entrée I hope will hold
its flavor and its freshness

You study it and ruminate
suggesting a cooler oven
or a hotter spice
we talk and listen to each other

I take it back upstairs
deciding

~ joan vayo ~
July 25, 2003 – May 23, 2005

They never gave up, those two.

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“Entrée” © 2005 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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