Rejection Farm is kind of like Animal Farm but totally not.
For the last couple of months my rejection farming feels like it has leveled up. Instead of JUST rejections I also get radio silence which is somehow worse. Multiple unanswered queries, unanswered withdrawals.
My current queue of submitted work is full of -many days past when I might have expected rejections.
Some of those magazines are closed right now.
I think some just hate me and my work.
I am going to let those languish while I work on finishing up my erotica collection.
Insert the gnashing of teeth and me beating my breast here. You know, writer angst.
Things on the Operation Chromebook front are going well thus far.
My sales pitch for the week:
Within the next couple of weeks I’ll have my shawl/crocheted accessories shop up and running. The weather has finally improved enough for me to get decent light to photograph my wares.
Um what else? I have resumed my habit of freewriting in my papernotebook for ten or twenty minutes before work. It feels nice. I keep going in the same sorts of directions, tears, blood, weakness, shame. I don’t know if I’ll ever show those to anyone.
I wrote a poem the other day and called it Birth Pome. The title comes more from remembering this book Verses That Hurt. I remember I bought that book brand spanking new in 1997 and I was so happy. Even then I so rarely bought brand new books I was so proud. I remember blushing when the older nerdy guy at the bookstore commented on my good taste in books.
I remember blushing again when I bought a battered copy of The Demon by Selby. That same man charged me only 50 cents because the cover was about to fall off. I remember there wasn’t really anyone else in the bookstore and he leaned over to counter to talk to me. He said I had intense reading habits. He recognized me from when I’d read a poem at an open mic and complimented me on not trying too hard to use a voice that wasn’t mine. I read very personal not very good poems at those readings. I confessed love and confusion.
I ran away from that bookstore every time either that guy or one of the others spoke me to me like a peer.
I was so shy.
I was terrified of being really seen.
I still run away sometimes. More figuratively than literally. I run and hide from people I admire who say nice things to me about my work or my reading tastes.
Sometimes I miss those afternoons I spent alone with my huge dark glasses and enough change in my pocket for a bottomless cup of drip coffee and a book in my purse and a full pack of cigarettes.