Writing is to Me, as Rejections are to, well, Me

Rejections can find you via snail mail, email, fax or phone.  Rejections can be worded nicely or harshly.  They can make you cry, roll your eyes or even throw your pen at the wall in your office.  (I mean, I would imagine one could do that…)

You get rejected in the home.

You get rejected via phone.

You get rejected wide and far.

They even find you in your car.

Rejections every single day,

Rejections, go away!

I will not eat green eggs and ham.

I will not eat them … wait, what am I doing!

Obviously, I got a writing rejection today.  It’s certainly not my first and sadly it won’t be my last.  But it’s funny to me that I have such different and varied reactions when I receive these joyous bits of encouragement.  And by “joyous bits of encouragement” I actually mean “lame, awful letters that make me want to pull my (beautiful) hair out and I could certainly do without.”

I don’t know if it’s my mood or the way the letter is worded, but I definitely can not anticipate how I will react.  Sometimes, it makes me sooooo sad.  The wondering of “am I ever going to get published!” comes back full force.

There’s also doubt.  Am I a good writer?  Are the people who have told me I’m a good writer just big liar pants?

Sometimes, it doesn’t affect me very much at all.  I read it.  I digest it.  If comments are offered I try to learn from them.  And then I move on.

But today, I am feeling angry.  And there is only thing I can type that will truly depict my inner thoughts on this most recent rejection.  Here it is:

L;kasdfkldmfkljfdvjkawefnuifnduiasfuasdfhzsfjkasd;fjhzsdfk;asdf;asdfuk;awerfnj;ijoawifji;asejf;oaesjrio;ajsdfl;kjas;klgslkfjsl;dfjoasdlfjasklefjjal;fjo;asjfioaesjr;asjeriuhR;JSLKAREJT!

Ahhhhh – that’s better.

I guess I should tell you what I’ve been submitting.  Besides this blog and my wonderful questions, I have been trying my hand at various kinds of freelance writing over the last couple of years.  I have had some articles published in newspaper, magazine and online. 

But ultimately, I would like to be a romance writer.  And no, not with Fabio on the cover.  I’m talking about Nora Roberts, Catherine Coulter, Debbie Macomber, Victoria Laurie.  I write contemporary romance with a bit of mystery/suspense.

There is one book in particular that I wrote a couple of years ago.  This is the book that I have been submitting and submitting and submitting and submitting and submitting.  And subsequently getting rejected and rejected and rejected and … you get the point.

Some people tell you to just keep on submitting.  I see their point.  However, I feel like I have submitted to every single editor, publisher and agent in the universe and there are actually no people left to send my manuscript to in the publishing industry.  This probably isn’t true. 

But it feels kinda true.

Why?  Why do I put myself through this agony time after time after time?  Couldn’t I be out there, doing something better with my time?  Is it really worth all of this?

Yes.  Yes, it is.  Because I love to write, that’s why.  If I stopped, I wouldn’t be me.  (Although I would still have beautiful hair.)

Thanks for listening!  And if you would like to commiserate about being a big rejected loser (with beautiful hair) like me, please feel free to leave a comment below.  (I will also accept any comments that offer a magical stress-free method of getting published instantaneously.)  Smoochies!

When Is It My Turn?

          I got to work today and opened my email.  There, staring at me, on a Monday morning no less, was a forwarded email.  I just knew what I would find when I opened it.

            I took a deep breath and clicked on it.  Sure enough, typed out and accented with an attached picture was the dreaded engagement email and diamond ring photo.  Yet another friend set to marry.

            This is a good thing.  Something positive to celebrate in a time of uncertainty and economic crappiness (that’s a technical term).  So why did my mood plummet upon reading this email?  Why does this annoying competitive tingle start vibrating all over? 

            Maybe because I’ve been feeling like a bit of an outsider for awhile now.  It just seems like everyone I know has someone.  Everyone except for me.

One of my friends created the term FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out.  I am in major FOMO-mode right now and I just don’t know how to deal.  I wonder if people look at me and think I’m weird; or if they think something is wrong with me.

Because shouldn’t I be with someone? 

            As objectively as I can, I dissect myself.  I think I’m pretty.  I know I’m smart.  I’m fairly certain that I’m funny, creative and a decent cook.  I always stop and pet dogs on the street.  And I always bring reusable bags to the grocery store!

See, I have a lot going for me.  But why then can I not seem to find someone to share it with?  Nothing!  Not even a little nibble on the line. 

            When I try (again objectively) to dissect some of the coupled people in my life, I often wonder how they ended up as couples. 

Really? That guy!

Seriously?  You think she’s normal!

            All joking aside, it’s not that I’m not happy for these people.  But rather, I’m wondering when I get to be happy as well.  It’s taken me a long time to be able to say this and mean it, but I know that I deserve to be happy.  I am a good person! 

            I’ve thought about posting this for a long time.  But honestly, this might be my number one biggest insecurity.  Is there something wrong with me?  Am I just in the wrong place?  The wrong city?  The wrong job?  Is there something I need to change about myself?

            But as I’m typing this (and getting a little teary-eyed) I have to say that I think I’m pretty amazing.  And maybe if I haven’t found the right person yet, there is a reason.  Maybe I’m supposed to go through this super-long wait because at the end of it all I will have something really special and really amazing!

            At least, that’s what I need to keep believing.

Ten Years Later...

          It seems that none of my friends go out anymore.  Maybe turning thirty means it’s time to slow down.  Maybe being married means you can’t go out with your girlfriends.  Maybe having babies means you become captive to your house.

          In any case, I had been craving a night out.  After all, I’m not married, a mom or an AARP member.  (At least, not yet.)  Plus, I recently lost twenty pounds and had just bought a new going-out shirt.

          So imagine my delight when one of my roommates from college said she would be in town.  She wanted to go out to some of our old haunts with me and another former roommate.  Finally, a night out!

          The three of us used to be quite the trio.  We partied, danced, drank, met boys, stayed up late, laughed.  So I knew that this girl’s weekend was exactly what I had been missing: a bit of my past.

          We met for dinner but they were late.  Traffic, weather, the usual.  Not a big deal.  Eating late though turned out to make everyone feel bloated, full and sleepy.  But never mind, we still had plans to go out to a bar.

          Except when we got there it was too crowded, our feet hurt, there was no where to sit, the music was too loud.  Plus, there were obnoxious, young twenty-somethings all over the place!

          At one point, as we watched an uber-drunk guy literally fall over, I got a bit sad.  These girls used to easily stay up until four, five in the morning and there we were yawing at a mere midnight and desperately searching for a place to sit down.  How many times could we utter, “wow, we’re so old.” 

          While we watched the younger set flirt, dance and down drinks at the speed of light, we stopped trying to fit in to our younger jeans.  We gracefully stood up and decided to go to IHOP.  There we could sit comfortably, have some coffee and just talk.

          So that’s how I ended up at IHOP until four in the morning.  We talked about memories from college and laughed at our former selves.  But I couldn’t help remember how we used to talk about clothes, bars and Britney Spears.  Now we were talking about mortgages, weddings, babies and, okay, still Britney Spears.

          I think I realized at IHOP that things had changed.  Somehow, we had traded gin and tonics for hot tea and coffee.  The last time the three of sat at that very same IHOP was the night of our college graduation.  At twenty-one, we wanted to be an actress, a lawyer and bum around Europe.  Maybe some plans didn’t pan out, but the nine year road between visits to IHOP had also provided some wonderful insights.

          For example, I’m a lot more secure in my life now than I was all those years ago.  True, I used to go out more and party it up.  But underneath the slutty tank tops and high heels, I was so insecure; constantly wondering if I was doing the right thing and worrying about what people thought of me.  Now, at age thirty there are traces of insecurities but over all, I know that I’m in a much better place. 

          Sometimes it’s sad to think that certain parts or your life are over.  It’s hard to let go.  But just because I’m not enjoying keg stands and glitter does not detract from enjoying the night with two old friends; catching up, laughing about wearing glitter and doing keg stands.

          Besides, when I went to the ladies room and heard a drunk girl crying and throwing up, I happily returned to my table of hot tea and coffee. 

Some things are better left in the past.

Freedom of the Future

That summer was odd.  I suppose that the summer following your first year of college is different from others, but still.

I felt like my mom started being mad at me for leaving and going back to college on June first.  My brother had just graduated from college and started his real career away from home.  I myself had three different jobs that summer. 

My first job was working retail.  I was lucky to get a position at my favorite clothing store.  I knew it would teach me valuable customer service skills and maybe even a few retail management details.

Okay, fine.  Let's call a spade a spade.  I got that job for the clothing discount.  I don't think I made a cent working there.  But man, my clothes were awesome sophomore year.

The second job was a babysitting position three days a week.  Three full days with two children.  One of my charges was a hyper-active three-year old.  This girl looked like an angelic character out of a Dr. Seuss book.  Don't let that fool you.  She was precocious, devilish and possibly in need of some sort of toddler yoga - find your chi - kind of class.  Her nine month old brother had like the biggest head I've ever seen.  Hands down.  But he pretty much just laughed at everything and ate mushed carrots so I couldn’t complain.

I've left the best job for last.  And by "best" I actually mean "most heinous."  I had the extreme pleasure of standing in Kmart, handing out coupons for Pantene Pro-V conditioner.  I was stationed next to the Martha Stewart Collection where a three-minute video on how to make a bed (not kidding) played over and over and over and over and over....

Funny what can happen over the course of a year.  Well, not even a full year really.  A school year.  Nine months prior to this particular summer I seemed to remember having quite a few friends in my hometown.  But when I returned from college in the big city, I didn't seem to have any.  Good thing I had those three jobs to occupy my mind.  My best friend and I stayed in touch all year using this new thing called email.  But she was staying at her school for the summer. 

As for everyone else, it was strange.  Maybe that horrid screeching sound of dial-up internet penetrated my brain and made me realize how lame a lot of them were.  Or that we just no longer had anything in common.

But then again, I didn't have much in common with my nine-month ago self.  I had switched my major.  I had cut my hair.  I had gained fifteen pounds. 

I understood much more acutely that summers were slipping away and would soon cease to mean a three month vacation and a couple of crazy jobs.

Needless to say, I was thrilled when Fourth of July weekend rolled around.  Precocious Cindy-Lou-Who and Big-Headed Baby's parents took them out of town.  I was off the schedule for the clothing store, possibly due to my extreme apathy over the new line of "cami’s."  Or maybe because I told someone that they could go to a different store and get the same outfit for less money.  And I even got time off from the all-important job of handing out coupons while watching Martha Stewart make a pretend bed in her pre-incarceration days.

I remember that I went into Pittsburgh to watch the fireworks.  As I stood with my head tilted toward the sky, oohing and aahing, I thought about my three jobs.  I thought about returning to school in the fall.  I thought about how fast my brother went through college and how I would be next to go out in the real world. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to do; what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I didn’t know if someday I would lose touch with my college friends the same way I had with my high school friends.

But I did know that my fingers were sticky from eating a funnel cake.  My entire body was sticky from the summer humidity that came off the three rivers.  As I stood in that moment, I knew nothing would be the same.  But for a couple minutes I could stand and watch a display of lights illuminate more than just the city of my past.  They illuminated my future and the freedom of the unknown.