Today Literary Journal wrote me and told me that my revision is full of “fine writing” and I show “tremendous promise” but even with the revision something still isn’t ringing quite right and they don’t want to include my piece, although could I submit something else soon?
AAAARRRRRGGGGGG!!!!!!! This sucks. I know I’ll return to this email and eventually be flattered by the langauge and I’ll try again, but right now I’m just distraught. I busted my ass on that revision and while I thought it would be comforting to know I did the very best I could, turns out, it’s not at all! If the very best I can do is not good enough, well, there is no comfort at all in that.
This year seems full of false starts. I took a job that, turns out, is so dreadfully wrong for me I don’t know I ever thought I could be corporate. If one more person says they look forward to my contribution to the growing value of _________ Corps I think I’ll vomit. I’ve been reading the same books since New Year’s Eve. And all the effort I poured forth into the Essay has come for naught.
Harumph. Am feeling very very sorry for myself, and thinking I need an activity to counteract all the writing I do on a daily basis, both for work and my own pleasure. Or maybe I need to abandon submitting stuff and just bang out my novel finally – perhaps it’s time to sacrifice my nonfiction for a few years and concentrate on fiction while my voice grows. Hmm. Maybe that’s it
I guess I can think through all of this more, later. It IS Oscar night, after all. And I do love the Oscars. A lot. There will be time for more thinking, and more writing, tomorrow.