Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Following (unpaid) passion

"Little White Pill," my newest short story submission to Glimmer Train, was rejected today. I had great hope hanging on that piece: It'd been in the queue a long time, an "in-process" submission still in process, up to the last minute, an entry in the lit journal's Short Story Award for New Writers "contest." Winners will be announced tomorrow. And, now, that hope, burst like a sad balloon.
"Assistance," rejected. "F & M," rejected--both Glimmer Train submissions last spring. "She Should Have Known Better," a submission to Ploughshares, rejected June 9, 2013.
"All That Jazz," rejected  by The Missouri Review on March 4, 2013.
Why I continue to do this to myself is a pitiful mystery.
If it weren't for my current (unfruitful) job search, these rejections wouldn't sting as much.
And yet ... I persevere. I write because I cannot NOT write.
Look at me now, feeling all shitty and a tad bit despondent, and still I turn to this blog.
Thank you, Mom Sequitur, for your steady companionship.

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