I don't have to say, 'it's been a while'. We're past that, friends.
Instead, many things have been. And after many things, there are two things.
1) All that spitting and squawking fashioned a publication. Yes. a publication. A darling, online literary experience tiptoed 'round my submission for eighty-six days; stomached it; and here we are. And there it is: http://www.metazen.ca/?p=14042.
And yes, it's about chairs.
2) All that spitting and squawking got me thinking. Then I stopped. Then I got an email. And now, I write in frenzy and gimmick. November is the month of mustaches and novels. One month, one novel. And I promise not to shave.
Do you remember the time when you realized that tapping or clapping or snapping had little to no tone change? You know. You have a song in head and with each tap you imagine so wholeheartedly the tune's tones, that the taps, out of courtesy, transcend rhythm and become the song--to you. Do you remember the time you realized that it was only for you they transcended? And unless your company shared the same song in heart or head, the tapping was meaningless beyond "tap, tap, tap." The clapping was meaningless beyond "clap, clap, clap."
I'm not sure writers realize this. I'm not sure they should. For it is a sad realization, a sad step on, knowing the reader, in their heart and head, can hear only "tap, tap, tap." Yes I've been rejected again (x2) March on!
I've stopped counting and started rewarding.
I know, I know. Rejection is normal.
"Even the beeeeest writers were rejected...."
But then, eventually they weren't.
So. Just in case I am never "weren't",
I'll reward myself in the meantime.
Now, rejections are fun. I get a treat.
In case you're giving, I deserve two treats [yesterday].
First plunge into sack-o-spiration.
If anyone can tell me what the sketch [below]
the scrawled: Pro: Sure frees up a lot of mental space though
refers to--we may be in business or at least in writing.
Before I dive into that bag of hope (see previous post), let's slash it. No, rather, just an itty-bitty, delicious incision ..(...in hope, not the bag. God save the bag!)
I've hoarded my pretties for years, fearing the rejection debilitating and guaranteed. A new me decided to set them free. So far, they've only stepped out and scuttled straight back into my sweaty clutches. But something happened while they were gone. They are not my pure princesses anymore. They returned to me affected, but not afflicted; touched, but not tainted. And it pleases me.
Because in the rejection, a confession: I read that. I didn't like it. But I read it.
And that pleases me.
In a state of submission. I'm not giving up.
I'm submitting and swallowing--no, gulping--rejections.
For a time, I hoarded. I hoarded story seeds, starts, and especially title pages.
Mmm. I love me some title pages.
Here. Pictured. A bag of notes. Notes of starts and stabs without censure.
It's time for a little stash sifting. I promise.