Making blackout poetry from my rejections

I first remember creating blackout poetry at a friend’s house, where pages were taped all over one wall at the entrance. I remember them all being pages of the Bible, but I might be wrong. The joy moving through me as I scribbled over a psalm or Paul’s letters felt perverse, even though I’d stopped believing. Or at least I’d wanted to stop believing – sometimes a particular kind of religious fear took hold and I had to wrestle my way out. (Today I’ve named these moments just one flavor of ol’ fashioned intrusive thoughts.)

I was proud of that blackout poetry, but I never wrote any of it down, stole any pages off the walls, took any pictures. Probably for the best: The less I remember, the better the poetry is. The less I remember, the better the house is. Like memories, poetry is a form of time travel, or maybe just making time stand still, expanding it out, blowing it up. 

And sometimes, like all artforms, it’s just silly and for fun.

For the first time in a long time, I tried blackout poetry again as a way to play with the rejections I got this year. I printed out each email (or, in the case of one, copied the mailed letter), took a giant marker and pencil, and started marking through them in date order. I think they’re interesting as a collection. You might be able to clock where I started to wear out the marker and my patience. I had to add some scribbles digitally in some spots. There were expected consistencies across a few (“unfortunately”), and some surprising standouts (someone calling me and I assume every one of the more than 500 applicants “my friend;” a deeply heartfelt rejection from a person who also submits plenty of proposals).

Each of these responses was written by a person or group of people and I’m not really trying to make fun or poke at any individuals through this process. Mostly I’m poking fun at the process itself and myself. As I slashed through these emails, looking for any bits that stood out enough to build a poem on, all these “nos” started to have less of a grip on me. At some point they transformed from rejections to material and lost their sting. Maybe that’s what I was trying to do way back then, standing in front of that entrance wall, dragging a black marker over red text.

Some fun 2025 submission numbers:

• Submissions - 73 

• Rejections - 24

• Yeses (of various kinds) - 8

• No response - 41

I also counted some of the words and phrases within the rejections themselves:

• My friend - 1

• Dedication - 2

• Hard work - 2

• Sorry - 2

• Difficult - 4

• Competitive - 6

• Unfortunately - 12

If you’re interested in seeing all of my blackout poetry rejections from 2025, I’ve pulled them together here. I think they’re a fun collection and, though I found it difficult to create different poems out of some very similar paragraphs, I’d be interested to hear what you think.

Wanna feel less alone by seeing even more rejections? Gina Femia at https://ginafemia.substack.com always does great essays and round ups each month. Check out their November version here.