In 2019, I began a five-year experiment: what would happen if I treated submitting poetry to literary journals as a regular practice?

I wasn’t alone in this curiosity. Kim Liao’s viral article “Why You Should Aim for 100 Rejections a Year” sparked a wave of writers joining the “100 Rejection Club” and reframing rejection as progress. 

I wanted to join them. 

There were a few key questions I was eager to answer: what would happen to my writing and my career if I made submitting widely an intentional part of my practice? What might keeping careful track of these submissions allow me to understand about publishing and writing? And what might happen if I set a single constraint—say, only submitting to paid publications?

Five years, 706 submissions, and 582 rejections later, I’d like to weigh in on the experience and share what it’s taught me as a writer. 

The Blessing (and Burden) of Perseverance

When I first totaled my submissions, I confess I felt a flicker of shame. Seven-hundred and six attempts. Nearly six-hundred rejections. There were months when I sent packet after packet into the void, enduring a sixty-rejection streak that made me wonder if the silence itself was trying to teach me something.

What possessed me to keep submitting, even after months of rejections? What beautiful, blind, stubborn foolishness is this?

There was a part of me that was just so curious. What was the poetry publishing industry really like? What would happen to my poetry, life, and career if I made submitting a regular part of it?

But mostly, it was hope. Every submission—even the hundreds that were likely not well-thought-out on my part—meant a possible acceptance. And every possible acceptance is a door to all sorts of wonder, from heartfelt connections to career advancement opportunities to a little extra spending money.

It made me realize: this naivete, this go-for-it-ness, this resilience, is a blessing.

The Poetics of Spreadsheets

To submit your poetry to over 100 literary journals and contests a year is to enter a realm of administrative chaos. With so many moving parts, staying organized isn’t just a recommendation; it’s a necessity. 

It became clear very early that if I was hoping to join the 100 Rejection Club, or even the Submit to a Few Journals and See What Happens Club, I needed to keep track of everywhere and everything I was submitting.

I built a spreadsheet early on, and it became more than a tool; it became part of the practice. It ensured I was a good literary citizen (withdrawing poems if they were accepted elsewhere). It helped me remember editors who went the extra mile, journals that created community, and small details that made the process feel human.

It also kept me accountable. The numbers on the page reminded me that rejection wasn’t personal—it was part of the math of sending work into the world.

It also led to the fascinating ability to visualize and calculate the effects of my submissions, to determine what was working and what wasn’t, and to transform my work as a writer.  

I also believe the statistics offered by careful record-keeping provide invaluable insights into the wider trends in the publishing industry. 

I’ve often wondered: what if poets shared their submission stats publicly, the way we share poems? Wouldn’t it make the process less mysterious, less isolating? What might we be able to reveal about the publication industry? What changes might we be able to advocate for?

Here, I think, is as good a place as any for an overview of my stats, which I will add (conveniently and seductively) in a Spreadsheet-like table:

Year	Submissions	Acceptances	Rejections	Pending	Acceptance Rate	Earnings	Spent	Net
2020	90	8	77	4	9.3%	$793	$238	$555
2021	119	9	109	1	7.6%	$1,085	$279	$806
2022	221	24	188	9	11.3%	$2,445	$124	$2,321
2023	152	14	132	6	9.6%	$846	$128	$718
2024	124	10	76	36	11.4%	$552	$37	$515
Total	706	65	582	56	10%	$5,721	$806	$4,915

On paper: a 10% acceptance rate, 65 published poems, nearly $5,000 earned after costs. In real life: five years of hope, rejection, resilience, and the stubborn curiosity to see what would happen if I refused to stop.

Spreadsheets aren’t glamorous, but they can make the hidden labor of poetry visible.

Care and Constraints 

There are currently 2,539 literary journals that publish poetry listed on Duotrope. That’s an impossible number to wrap my head around. I wanted a way to narrow the field, to give myself a structure that was both practical and a little bit playful.

So I set a constraint: I would only submit to journals and contests that paid.

At the time, I was finishing a PhD (in Translation Studies), my scholarship was about to end, and money was tight. So I decided that instead of being a proper, Uber-driving millennial, I would side hustle in previously written words. I wanted to know what would happen if I tried. Would my work be taken seriously at different tiers of journals? Was there any money in poetry? And perhaps most of all: could I rationalize the time spent on submissions as a small form of survival?

The results surprised me. Over five years, I’ve managed to cover about eight months’ rent through poetry alone – a figure that reveals two things: first there is some money in poetry, even at the amateur level; second, I have very cheap rent.

A fellow poet recently worked out that my earnings came to about $8.10 USD per submission. I found this surprisingly validating. It wasn’t about the hourly rate or the business model; it was the realization of the strange, miraculous fact that I could earn anything at all from the poetry I loved writing.

But the true value of this constraint was the fact that it opened unexpected doors.

It connected me with editors, journals, experiences, and poets I would never have encountered if I had focused exclusively on building a resume. It shaped my writing life not just in numbers, but in connections and opportunities – the true returns of the experiment.

Gratitude Beyond the Numbers

There is much beauty that can come from putting yourself out there. Every acceptance is an open door. It’s an opportunity that can launch a career, a collaboration, or even a friendship.

I’m enormously grateful for every acceptance, every publication, and every personalized rejection. I’m grateful for all of the amazing editors, readers, and teams who keep these journals running—often at their own expense. I’m grateful to everyone who has reached out along the way to help give me a leg up on my journey.

Names keep popping into my head as I write this: Pervin Saket, Wendy Lesser, Meg Hartmann, and Puneet Dutt. These extraordinary individuals and remarkably talented writers saw me when I felt invisible. I am so thankful for their recognition; it helped me realize that I must be doing something right.  

And then there are the poets who reached out on Instagram, like Eartha Davis (@eartha_davis_), with whom I co-wrote a poem, a really enriching experience. 

Finally, I cannot express enough gratitude for my poetry accountability buddy, Cory Henniges, who has kept me writing weekly for 120 weeks and who needs a website. He even helped me double-check my spreadsheets.

The beauty of these connections cannot be measured. 

Looking Ahead

It’s the last day of 2024 as I finish this reflection, and I can’t help but ask myself: what’s next?

Changes are coming. 

I hope to begin querying my first novel. I want to carefully compile a chapbook. And yes, I’ll keep submitting poems—perhaps not as scattershot or side-hustle driven as before, but with the same willingness to celebrate rejection and persistence as part of the practice. 

Above all, I seek one thing: to keep doing what I love.

If this five-year experiment taught me one thing, it’s that persistence is not about grinding toward prestige. It’s about creating the conditions where opportunity—and community—can enter your world.

And for that, I am endlessly grateful.