Five Years, 706 Submissions: 7 Lessons I’ve Learned about Submitting Poetry to Literary Journals and Contests

I have a confession: I’m fascinated by the publishing world. The randomness. The exactitude. The sheer insanity of it all.

And when I am fascinated by something, I like to play.

It’s been five years since I decided to announce to the world that I was a poet. I did not do this, as one might hope, by shouting it from a scroll on my terrace (which, frankly, my neighbors wouldn’t have appreciated). I started to play.

I started submitting to literary journals.

Five years, 706 submissions, and 65 publications later, I’d like to weigh in on the experience…and share the lessons I’ve learned.  

1. Shoot for Rejection, Not Acceptances

I’ll begin with the obvious. There are things we can control, like how many manuscripts we send out, and there are things we cannot, like the weather and whether or not the editors will actually like what we’ve sent.

Sure, we can carry umbrellas, read past editions of their journals, read their mastheads, and Google them. But in that moment, when whoever is reading the manuscript opens it, we do not know if they still like armadillos. We do not know if our bird-shaped poem is really brilliant or just another bird-shaped poem floating in a bird-shaped universe.

But we can keep submitting.

Much has been said about this in the literary community. Kim Liao’s viral article, “Why You Should Aim for 100 Rejections a Year,” is an excellent read. So, too, is her follow up “What Collecting 100 Rejections Taught Me About Creative Failure.” Liao is not alone. Plenty of writers have shared their attempts at joining the unofficially-named “100 Rejection Club.” There has even been a #100Rejections challenge.

And I wanted to join them; I wanted to see what would happen.

One-hundred rejections, I thought. I can make that happen. And maybe—just maybe—every now and then I’d be disappointed and get an acceptance.

2. Keep Excellent Records. Spreadsheets, Like Rejections, Are Also in Your Control

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 survival strategy.

If you’re hoping to join the 100 Rejection Club, or even the Submit to a Few Journals and See What Happens Club, keep track of everywhere and everything you’re submitting. There are three reasons for this:

1. 1. It ensures you remain a good literary citizen and withdraw a poem immediately if it’s accepted in another journal. It also ensures you don’t send the same bird poem to the same journal more than once, which is really just a waste of everyone’s time (including the bird’s).

1. 1. It helps you know things—and, better yet, remember them. I take note, for instance, of editors who put in the extra mile in their rejection, a thoughtful touch upon acceptance, or promoting my work once published. Or fun little tidbits, like the fact that Lucky Jefferson has an interactive map showing where their featured writers are from. I find that doing this is a great way to create a sense of deeper connection with the journals I’m submitting to and the amazing people who run them. 

1. 1. It makes you feel like a proper, organized adult. The psychological effects of this cannot be understated.

“Spreadsheets are pleasures we can understand,” I’ve written in a poem that hasn’t been published yet. (I’m waiting for it to get more rejections first).

I wish more poets did the same. Wouldn’t it be fascinating to have a place where we could share our stats? Or even–if we’re feeling particularly daring–our spreadsheets?

3. Stubborn, Naïve Perseverance is a Blessing

I confess: this was an unanticipated addition to this list.

As I began adding up my submissions over these past five years, I became embarrassed. There were months when I submitted to 36 journals, none of which resulted in acceptance. Sure, I aimed high, but still.

There were months where all I got was a generic “thank you for submitting, but we have to pass,” from magazines with names like The Melancholy Fern and Earl’s Basement Chronicles (I made these up, but you get the idea).

But I kept going.

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 or no response	Acceptance % out of responses
2024	124	10	76	36	11.4%
2023	152	14	132	6	9.6%
2022	221	24	188	9	11.3%
2021	119	9	109	1	7.6%
2020	90	8	77	4	9.3%
Total	706	65	582	56	10.0%

There’s a lot that can be analyzed here, of course, but I’ll stick to the basics so you can enjoy the pleasure of the spreadsheet for yourself:

• • I have submitted to 706 literary journals and competitions in the past 5 years. Most of these submissions were for poetry.
  • I have been in the 100-rejection-per-year club for three years, going on four (the jury will likely be out on that until spring 2025, but I have high hopes).
  • I have been accepted (published) 65 times, giving me an overall acceptance rate of a beautiful, even 10%. I’m quite happy with this.  
  • The majority (but not all) were free or very low-entry journals and contests.
  • My longest rejection streak was 60 (yikes!). Fortunately, it was broken by a $1,000 contest win.
  • I have recalculated my numbers and this table four times after things just didn’t quite add up, reinforcing that I am better off as poet.

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 extra spending money.

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

4. Submit Intentionally

Ah, you might say, but haven’t you already touted the benefits of the 100-submission club? Does that involve submitting to a ton of literary journals?

Not necessarily. While I’ve learned that adjusting the number of my submissions does indeed impact the number of acceptances, one unquantifiable lesson is the benefit of submitting intentionally.

This, I must confess, is my biggest regret from this experiment: the willy-nilly-ness of my strategy up until very, very recently.

In 2022, for instance, I submitted to anything and everything that fit the following criteria: free (or very low fee) + paid + “I think I might have a poem for this.” This is great in many ways, but not-so-great in many others, since it could very well lead to getting something published in a journal you’re not truly thrilled about. (The Melancholy Fern is all fun and games until someone posts an incriminating picture of a Pothos.)

It could also lead to a lot of rejections from very prestigious journals with a .01% acceptance rate that make you basically feel like you’re wasting your time. Because you probably are (except in those rare, miraculous occasions when you’re not).

There are currently 2,539 literary journals that publish poetry listed on Duotrope. You have to ask yourself: Which ones am I submitting to, and why? Is your goal to be published in the most prestigious journals possible? The journals that pay? The journals with the biggest readership? The best fits for your work? Your demographic? The journals who, after submitting, will send you a personalized thank-you, follow up with you throughout the entire process, and hire an artist to make the art that accompanies your published poem? Do you want a physical copy of the journal you’re published in? Do you want your poem to be open access (available to read freely on the internet)?

And how much time are you really willing to spend on submitting to prestigious journals hoping to get a bite?

Knowing the answer to these questions is key, and something I wish I would have figured out sooner. It’s also something I like to explore in The Poet’s Guide to Submitting to Literary Journals and hope to tackle in a future blog post (I know that workshops aren’t accessible to all artists, and do hope to make whatever information I give freely available and find a way to offer free spots in the future).

5. The Line Between Submitting and Procrastination Is Thin

There is addiction in submitting poetry; I’ll be the first to admit it. It was an addiction that was easy for a blossoming, semi-blocked writer to develop.

I’m advancing my career, I’d mutter to myself every time I found myself sitting there on a Sunday night polishing another cover letter or formulating another manuscript. But what wasn’t I doing while submitting?

Writing.

I was fortunate that I never had to learn a harder lesson with this and that I eventually, by some internal miracle, realized that something had to give and came up with a more sustainable routine. (Once a week, focusing on 3-5 journals with a similar vibe so I can send the same, or a similar, submission packet).

But if submitting ever gets in the way of your writing, it may be time to take a step back. It’s far better to have 10 unrejected poems than 1 poem rejected 100 times, don’t you think?

After all, there are other things you can do with poems: publish them on Instagram, put them on your grandmother’s refrigerator, or turn them into festive holiday doilies. All of these may bring as much joy as traditional publishing.

6. If You’re Going to Be a Starving Artist, Do It in Style

I did not have much money when I began submitting. (This is a lie. I still don’t have much money).

Nevertheless, I decided that instead of being a proper, Uber-driving millennial living in a relative’s basement, I would side hustle in words.

I would sell my poems.

Here are my stats and earnings:

Year	Total Submissions	Total Acceptances	Acceptance % out of responses	Total Earnings	Total Spent	ROI
2024	124	10	11.4%	$552.50	$37*	1391%
2023	152	14	9.6%	$846	$127.5	564%
2022	221	24	11.3%	$2,445	$124	1870%
2021	119	9	7.6%	$1,085	$279	288%
2020	90	8	9.3%	$793	$238.5	232%
TOTAL	706	65	10%	$5,721.50	$806	869% AVG

I’ve managed to pay about 8 months’ rent these past five years thanks to poetry. This should tell you two things: 1) there is some money in poetry, even at the amateur level; 2) I have very cheap rent.

It also says a lot about my approach. Note, if you will, how my spending does not directly correlate with my earnings. I earn more when I submit more, but my ROI drops with expensive contests (looking at you, chapbooks).

For example:

• • In 2021, I sent some chapbook attempts out to major competitions ($75 worth!). The only “bite” was a shortlist from a lovely but lesser-known free one.

• • In 2020-2021, flush with a salary raise (yay teaching assistants!), I splurged. The results? Less than stellar compared to 2022.

The lesson: If you’re going to be a starving artist, play the part: submit rampantly and keep costs low.

Now, if we took some time to calculate the hours spent submitting to see if I earned minimum wage…let’s not.

But if you know a poet with a calculator who enjoys geeking out over stats (I’m looking at you, Meg Hartmann), here’s an interesting one for you: my earnings-per-submission have come out to approximately $8.10 USD per submission these past five years. So yes, considering the fact that I usually get a few out in an hour (2-5), that does indeed mean I’m making above minimum wage in nearly all countries (even Australia and Luxembourg). This makes me feel content, so thanks, Meg! 

Even if my earnings weren’t so high (and I was on the “starving artist” plan), however, I would still submit. 

I once had a student from a wealthy background who made surfboards. When he worried about money, I asked, “Why not sell your boards?” He scoffed: “They’d only go for $1,000 each. That’s nothing.”

A thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for making something you love. The poet in me—the one who leaped up and down every time she sold a sandwich worth of poems—marveled.

Is it classy of me to have begun the first five years of my career as a poet only submitting to literary journals that pay, even if that payment is less than $5? Probably not. Is it the epitome of the abundant mindset? Unlikely.

But it did teach me one thing: Everything feels like wealth if you’re doing something you love.

7. Be Grateful

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.

Be grateful for every acceptance, every publication, and every personalized rejection. Be grateful for all of the amazing editors, readers, and teams who keep these journals running—often at their own expense. Be grateful to everyone who reaches out along the way to help give you a leg up on your 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 the Eartha Davis (@eartha_davis_), with whom I wrote a poem that was recently published Spark to Flame (what an incredible experience that was).

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.

Where to From Here?

It’s the last day of 2024 as I finish this article. I cannot help but ask myself: what are my goals as a writer for this next chapter?

I will soon begin querying my first novel. This is a fascinating endeavor. I also hope to redirect more poetic energy to carefully compiling a chapbook. (This may require a long clothesline and surfing lessons—more on that someday). I’m also hoping to take Instagram more seriously as a playground both as a poet and artist, and just have fun with it. 

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

My fascination with the publishing world will continue, of course. (Look out, chapbook contests and agents who rep YA fantasy!). But so will my journey to reduce internal and external clutter to write from a place of deeper simplicity.

Recently, I started setting aside a day a week during the workweek to “do nothing.” At first I was afraid it would lead to rampant idleness (it sometimes does). But instead, I have found that it most often leads to blissful, playful silence—a space from which so many words are born.

It also led me to clean out my old poem folders (I tend to hoard), where I found this part of a journal entry: 

I do not write for the external world. The external world exists

so I can write. Write, write because the world is night and words

are light. Write because it’s breath and chance and chime.

Write because you know, deep in the secret furrows of your soul,

that writing is what will save you, what will save the world.