In which I apparently guzuguzu suru while dealing with taste-less tomatoes and then write a rejection letter to myself
Thinking about the rabbit holes I wrote before again, I decided to look up the definition of "to procrastinate". I found that to procrastinate was "to put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done". This tells me that by chasing down into all these rabbit holes as part of the work on my book, I'm not actually procrastinating: I'm just removing myself from the book one step, to spend time with something that I feel has relevance for it.
(Today, I added a few paragraphs to my book, given I finished reading Maggie Nelson's book The Art of Cruelty.)
Why then does it feel as if I were procrastinating when in fact, or rather given the agreed-upon meaning of the work, I am not?
I looked up how you'd say the same thing in Japanese. "There are many ways of saying “procrastination” in Japanese." I found. The first one is listed as guzuguzu suru (ぐずぐず する) -- an onomatopoeia that immediately attracted my attention, given I'm currently finishing Polly Barton's Fifty Sounds, her autobiography that uses the Japanese language's embrace of onomatopoeia as its hook. guzuguzu suru doesn't appear in the book (obviously, when you're guzuguzu, you'll never get your book done, which is kind of proving the point I started out with). Anyway, guzuguzu, the internet tells me, means "lacking a clear attitude or action; hesitantly". As careful I have become of attaching Japanese words to my own life, in part for the same reasons described by Barton, "hesitantly" appears to apply very well to what I'm doing with my own book.
This is another rabbit hole I've been endulging in happily: looking up words in Japanese, the language I barely speak (and never properly will). I wish there were a word for it, a word that I could use instead of telling myself I'm procrastinating, when I'm engaging in some mental endeavour to avoid dealing with another one, while telling myself (and this is often true) that it is all in preparation for the one I'm avoiding. I couldn't call this research, even though in part it is. But research strikes me as something you do in a more organized fashion (I know this from having done actual astrophysical research for over a decade). It's not research, it's not procrastination... The Japanese might have an onomatopoeia for it.
These are the worst tomatoes I’ve ever bought in my whole life. They look perfectly fine, but they’re completely inedible: they’re very firm and without any taste whatsoever. Obviously, strictly speaking I don’t know whether what I just wrote is actually true. I would have to eat them to find out (I can't, in other words, have my tasteless tomatoes and eat them). But I have no intention to do so, given that I had bought four tomatoes, and I attempted to eat two others already. In fact, I ate half of one after having put slices of it on a sandwich. My knife had more trouble slicing through the tomato than the rustic bread at the bottom. I have no intention of trying these remaining two tomatoes.
I don’t know what else I will do with them. They look fine, they look like tomatoes. But I wouldn’t even call them a simulation of a tomato, because I would expect for a simulation to have some resemblance in taste. Taking a picture of them seemed like the only worthwhile thing to do — at least now I have a picture that contains all relevant details of these tomatoes.
How often do you see a photograph where beyond what’s in the picture there is nothing else to what’s depicted? Now, I'm thinking that these tomatoes are actually perfect for photography because a camera captures almost everything there is to them. They don't smell, they don't taste like anything -- they just look like tomatoes.
Yesterday, I had an epic Zoom freeze. For a few minutes, I had to look at this picture, which gave me enough time to take a screenshot once I had realized what it looked like: me posing for a religious painting from the European Middle Ages.
A little later, I realized that the deadline of a writers grant I had thought of applying for was looming. I had been kicking the can with the label "prepare submission materials" down the metaphorical road for weeks, and now I had a day and a half left. That was more than enough time to get my materials in.
I made it roughly halfway through the second page of the overall process. At that stage, the dread of dealing with it became overwhelming and I reverted back to my pose, waiting for that medieval painter to show up.
Finally, I said "fuck it", and I closed the browser window. I wasn't going to apply. Realistically speaking, there's no way I would have been awarded the (much needed) money anyway. But after some thinking about it, that's not why I didn't want to apply.
The main reason is how you tend to get rejected. I'm sure you've seen these kinds of emails. They're anonymous, and someone "regrets" to inform you that you weren't selected, which, mind you, isn't a reflection of the quality of your work etc. etc. etc.
It's literally not any different than the passive-aggressive bullshit that corporations throw at you every time you need to deal with them. Let's say you call some help line or need to talk to your doctor. First, you spend what feels like an eternity pressing numbers to get through some menus (the menu options always have just changed), and then you're made to wait: "our phone lines are very busy right now." No, not "right now," they're always very busy. "Your call is important to us." No, it isn't, because if the word "important" is supposed to have any meaning then it's this: if my call is as important as you say it is, then you'd get to it right away -- because that's what "important" means.
I can't bring myself to write grant applications because I find the rejection letters so incredibly demeaning and insulting. That's the reality of it. I don't mind the rejection per se (I'm not exactly enjoying it, either), but I really don't feel like I need to get insulted and demeaned at the same time. There it is, that's my red line.
Given that I now had some extra time, the time I would have spend on writing my application, I decided to write a rejection letter to myself. What would a letter look like that tells me that I didn't get the money while treating me with respect and like the fully functioning adult I'd like to think I am? Maybe something like this (responding to a proposal for a book):
Dear Joerg Colberg,
thank you for your application for the RICH FOUNDATION writers grant. We received 1,234 applications, and our jury carefully reviewed the submissions. At the end of the review process, your submission was not among the 20 we decided to fund.
We feel that your submission did not satisfy all the criteria we had established for projects to fund. We also feel that there still is ample space for improvement in your proposal. Mind you, a different jury might come to a different conclusion. Obviously, there is a considerable amount of subjectivity involved.
Having said that, we feel that your proposal will ultimately result in a very worthwhile book. We thus encourage you to continue the work. Please consider applying for the next round, either with this or a different project.
Yours sincerely, ...
I'd like to think that if I received a rejection letter along these lines I'd feel a little bit better. They could also be more critical and tell me they don't think the proposal is so well thought out.
They key here is that if I apply for a writers grant, then the writing of the rejection letter for sure should reflect some thoughful thinking as well, right? In fact, any rejection letter should.
I know this takes a lot of time, but we all know how shitty the process of applying for something is. So why save time and money at the very end when people are at their most vulnerable?
Anyway, I hope that you're doing well, and as always thank you for reading!
-- Jörg