Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

I've started a new endeavor. Not sure anything will come of it, but as my mom always said, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." So, I'm venturing. We'll see if there's anything gained. I have tons of photos on my computer. Just tucked away in folders. Every now and then I'll open the folders and go through them. I thought about printing them and making albums, but I'm really the only one who would enjoy flipping through the pages. I thought about having a couple put on canvas to hang on my walls, and I still might do this. Then I thought: Why not put them on a photo platform and see if I can make some money from them? For the last six or seven months, I've been thinking through if I should try this or just let it go (yeah, I tend to take a long time to come to some decisions). I talked about this with the kids, and they shrugged, giving me the standard young person response, "You do you." So I'm doing me. A couple of days ago I finally...

A couple of days ago, Funny Delightful Son came in from work and sat in the overstuffed chair in front of the windows overlooking the backyard. I had been lounging on the couch most of the afternoon, binging a program I didn't have to give much attention to keep up with what was going on. Mostly I was simmering in self-pity over receiving yet another rejection. "What're you doing?" Funny Delightful Son asked. "Soothing my sobbing soul," I said. "Hmmm. Is that right? Why is it sobbing?" I could see Funny Delightful Son trying really hard not to laugh at me. "Another editor telling me my writing sucks." "So Mom . . .." This is what Funny Delightful Son always says just before he launches into his practical, matter-of-fact take on a situation. " . . .why is it so important to you to have someone else tell you your writing is good, or at least good enough for whatever publication they are putting out?" All I co...

Yet another rejection. At least this one only took just over two months to show up in my inbox. I have two other pieces out, one that's been hanging for over five months, the other almost at the year point now. To be honest, I'd forgotten about the one that's been out for a year, so I sent an inquiry email today, asking about its status. I'm figuring since I've not heard anything, the answer will be a no. When Funny Delightful Son came in and asked what I'd been doing all morning, I answered, "Crying in my coffee over being rejected again." He thought my comment funny. I was being serious. Well, just a little bit, anyway. But I just marked the submission off the list I've been keeping, made note of the pieces that are open to being sent somewhere else, and researched more possible publications. I read some more poetry, hoping to soak up what it is about them that got them published, but more often than not I found myself sitting back in my chair...

Sigh. I'm not sure reading rejection letters will ever get easier, but today's rejection letter gave me some hope  the editor's final decision to not publish my story was a difficult decision. A couple of lines past the rejection part of the email I received was this: "You should know that there was considerable discussion here at Stymie about the piece, but it just wasn't quite the right fit. I really hope you'll submit again in the future. For my part, I'd be interested in a shorter piece suitable for our web content." The usual sting of rejection didn't hurt quite so much after reading that. The part about "right fit" I don't totally get. I do know that finding the right target for a story can be terribly difficult. My particular piece is about a boy playing basketball but is told through the eyes of his mother. Stymie is a sports lit magazine, and like many other sports related mags, it gives more space to baseball and golf....

Cuz if I let it get to me, I'd be a basketcase. As of today, three short stories rejected out of the four I've sent out. I know three is nowhere near the number of rejection slips some famous writers received before finally getting that one break, so I'm just going to buck up and keep on trying. I've been saying for a long time now that writing is what I really want to do, and I know the chances of making it are extremely slim, but writing truly is all I've ever dreamed about. It's way past time to take it from dreamland into reality land. When I was in college and grad school, I wrote some stories that my profs loved. They all encouraged me to continue honing my craft, saying I have a gift. I sort of just waved their kind words off, thinking they said that to all the students who came through their classes. But then I submitted a story to a writers conference, and the guest writer chose my story alone to workshop with everyone attending. I felt so honored. He, ...