Day 122

Day 122: Real Time
Day 18: 21 Day Complaint Free Journey                     


I was rejected again this week.

Before you laugh and point and say that I’ve just complained THREE DAYS before I reach my goal, let me explain.

I was 10 when my first piece of writing appeared in print, an article about the Blue Angels in the base military newspaper wherever my dad was stationed at the time. Although that article was not a creative piece of work, the process of etching words onto paper (even if I have made the switch to typing them onto a screen) has always satisfied me in the way that nothing else does. (Well, now that I’m older than 10, maybe one other thing, but I’ll write about that and send it elsewhere, away from prying little eyes, not all of which belong to children.)

I wasn’t raised in a family that encouraged the free expression of feelings. So I learned to let my emotions drip out onto the paper, word by word, hurt by hurt, my pen or pencil the magic wand that took me away and then brought me back when it was safe.

For reasons not important now, I did not pursue my passion for words when I journeyed off to college, instead earning a degree in education. My writing waned for decades, the sheer busyness of life chewing up time and spitting me out in the process, until three years ago when I stepped off the treadmill and said, “ENOUGH!” I mortgaged my home, even more than it was at the time, and retreated back to sanity, my peace of mind more valuable than….well, anything.

It was then that I began to write again. I self-published a book about single parenting, primarily because it was important that I saw my work in print. More importantly, I embraced my emotional life once more, dismantling the filter that I had erected so long ago, ever since I had put the pen down nearly 40 years ago. In order to pay the bills, I write curricula and other types of content that is more “wordsmithing” than creative, and I consult in areas that I mastered while a teacher. But, in the early dawn or dusk of a day, I also write in ways that are very satisfying to me, that I find are necessary for me to remain at peace and coherent within the context of my life. That type of writing has filled up dozens of notebooks and flash drives that, if nothing else, will be my legacy to my daughter.

I stopped submitting my work for about a year, the rejection grating on my spirit after a few years. (I’ve entered enough contests to finance a small yacht ; yes, those contests cost money to enter), and answered hundreds of calls for submissions. One piece was purchased by Teacher Magazine, but that's it. So, for the past year, I wrote but I didn’t share it with anyone.

And then, last week I sent in three pieces of work. And got an immediate rejection via email on one of those. I’m still waiting on the other two.

BUT I am again taking the risk of sharing my words, my heart with strangers. Because when you stop and think about it, don't writers write in order to be read?
And it feels good. No complaints here.

Three more days! Where are we going to celebrate?