A profile I pitched to a magazine out of Atlanta has been accepted – I’ll link to it on my website once,well, I have a website. Now, if only favorite online literary magazine would write back and accept my essay, I would have met one of my New Year’s Resolutions to have two published pieces (outside of work and local papers) this year. Or, since favorite online literary magazine will probably reject said essay, since its been rejected everywhere else, it would be nice if it did so quickly so I could send it elsewhere. I know, just last month I was complaining about the hasty rejection I received. What can I say? A writer is never happy.
Another profile I wrote led to my subject being interviewed by important weekend NPR show, and fancy D.C. newspaper, and all of a sudden I am hot at work, hot hot hot, to the point where ten hour days are not enough (not that I work ten hour days, hardly, but if I did they wouldn’t be enough, so I stick to a nice solid nine) and I am imagining myself as intrepid big city writer, pounding the pavement in my designer heels and beautiful suits, tape recorder in one hand and pen in another, meeting with government leaders and famous actors and complaining about my GQ deadline.
A little bit of hubris on my part this week, I suppose. But hell, I had a good week, a satisfying and busy week, which left me so wiped out that I abandoned all short stories, the novel, my immersion book, my essays, and that I’m not so happy with. I want the literary career, too. I want the lovely, heartwrenching literary novel, the critical essays, a nod from Joyce Carol Oates, days tucked away in the college library. But if I keep going the way I’m going there will be no time for that life. I don’t know which way to go – which road to take – which way I will make me the most happy, the most satisfied, doing my best for the world.
Tried talking about this with S. but we both are struggling right now with career decisions and all we could decide on was having pork roast and acorn squash for dinner. And probably copious amounts of wine.
Probably sound like I’m complaining, but I’m not, really. Just fueled by several cups of coffee and some peanut butter toast, passing a few minutes before running. Confused by myself, wondering if I’m selling out. It feels a little like it. Odd, that success feels like selling out, like I’m worried about the criticism and raised eyebrows from all my writing colleagues. And why am I worried what other people think? Shouldn’t I just be grateful I make a living writing? I swear, fate is going to come after me in a bad, bad way.
Saturday morning gut-check
It is cool, gray and rainy outside. S. is upstairs studying for, well, ever, probably. I’ve lost 2lbs, according to the scale. I get to shop at the fancy grocery store since we don’t need very much in the way of food, today. I’m partway into Stephen King’s The Cell. While most people I know are furiously writing their novels, I’ve taken a break from mine to outline the story, since my plot is seriously screwed up and I keep hitting brick walls. Work is good but busy. I leave for vacation in a week and a half, and promised myself I’d start packing. The movie Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is upstairs waiting for me. Michigan State plays Notre Dame tonight, which S. and I will watch over our autumnal dinner. I’ve read most of my favorite blogs, and commente on many of them. It’s time, I think, to put on the old running shoes and hit the pavement for a little while, clear out the mind on this cloudy day, and return to the keypad and my work for a while. Really, no decision about which way to go needs to be made, at least not yet. Probably, that will end up taking care of itself, with time. And until then, I just need to keep on writing, keep on writing, keep on writing…